Just then the door opened, and Jean de l'Hôpital entered the room.
“I crave your majesty's pardon for this interruption,” he said, “but I am compelled to attend to my illustrious patient. It is necessary that his highness should take the draught prepared for him.”
“I applaud your zeal, sir,” replied François, “and I enjoin you to use all your art to restore the prince your master to health as quickly as may be. Think you he will be able to set out for Lyons in three days' time?”
“I will not answer for it, sire,” replied Jean de l'Hôpital, consulting Bourbon by a look.
“In a week, then?” demanded the king.
“Perchance in a week, sire,” replied the physician. “But he must travel slowly, for even then he will be very feeble.”
“Come hither, sir,” said the king, taking Jean de l'Hôpital aside. “Answer me truly, as you value your life. What ails the Constable?”
“His highness is labouring under a severe quotidian ague, caught at Montbrison,” replied the physician. “The fever has proved of singular obstinacy, and will not yield to ordinary remedies. We are under great apprehensions,” he added, lowering his voice, “that it may be followed by some mortal ailment, as consumption, or the black jaundice. His state is exceedingly critical, and demands the utmost care. Were he to take cold, I would not answer for his life.”
“Hark ye, sir,” said the king. “I know you can speedily cure him, if you will. Within a week I expect to see him at Lyons.”
“I cannot perform impossibilities, sire,” replied the physician; “but if it be in the power of medical skill to further your majesty's desires, you shall behold him at the time appointed.”