“I never had so much money before,” said the young prince, joyously, as he crossed the chamber with his favorite to go to his carriage. “No, never! What a weight these crowns are!”
“But why has Monsieur le Cardinal given away all this money at once?” asked M. le Prince of the Comte de la Fère. “He must be very ill, the dear cardinal!”
“Yes, my lord, very ill, without doubt; he looks very ill, as Your Royal Highness may perceive.”
“But surely he will die of it. A hundred and fifty thousand livres! Oh, it is incredible! But, comte, tell me a reason for it?”
“Patience, Monseigneur, I beg of you. Here comes M. le Duc d’Anjou, talking with the Chevalier de Lorraine; I should not be surprised if they spared us the trouble of being indiscreet. Listen to them.”
In fact the chevalier said to the prince in a low voice, “My lord, it is not natural for M. Mazarin to give you so much money. Take care! you will let some of the pieces fall, my lord. What design has the cardinal upon you to make him so generous?”
“As I said,” whispered Athos in the prince’s ear; “that, perhaps, is the best reply to your question.”
“Tell me, my lord,” repeated the chevalier impatiently, as he was calculating, by weighing them in his pocket, the quota of the sum which had fallen to his share by rebound.
“My dear chevalier, a wedding present.”
“How a wedding present?”
“Eh! yes, I am going to be married,” replied the Duc d’Anjou, without perceiving, at the moment, he was passing the prince and Athos, who both bowed respectfully.
The chevalier darted at the young duke a glance so strange, and so malicious, that the Comte de la Fère quite started on beholding it.
“You! you to be married!” repeated he; “oh! that’s impossible. You would not commit such a folly!”
“Bah! I don’t do it myself; I am made to do it,” replied the Duc d’Anjou. “But come, quick! let us get rid of our money.” Thereupon he disappeared with his companion, laughing and talking, whilst all heads were bowed on his passage.
“Then,” whispered the prince to Athos, “that is the secret.”
“It was not I who told you so, my lord.”
“He is to marry the sister of Charles II?”
“I believe so.”
The prince reflected for a moment, and his eye shot forth one of its not infrequent flashes. “Humph!” said he, slowly, as if speaking to himself; “our swords are once more to be hung on the wall—for a long time!” and he sighed.
All that sigh contained of ambition silently stifled, of extinguished illusions and disappointed hopes, Athos alone divined, for he alone heard that sigh. Immediately after, the prince took leave and the king left the apartment. Athos, by a sign made to Bragelonne, renewed the desire he had expressed at the beginning of the scene. By degrees the chamber was deserted, and Mazarin was left alone, a prey to suffering which he could no longer dissemble. “Bernouin! Bernouin!” cried he in a broken voice.
“What does Monseigneur want?”
“Guénaud—let Guénaud be sent for,” said His Eminence. “I think I’m dying.”
Bernouin, in great terror, rushed into the cabinet to give the order, and the piqueur, who hastened to fetch the physician, passed the king’s carriage in the Rue Saint Honoré.
43
Guénaud
The cardinal’s order was pressing; Guénaud quickly obeyed it. He found his patient stretched on his bed, his legs swelled, his face livid, and his stomach collapsed. Mazarin had a severe attack of gout. He suffered tortures with the impatience of a man who has not been accustomed to resistances. On seeing Guénaud: “Ah!” said he; “now I am saved!”
Guénaud was a very learned and circumspect man, who stood in no need of the critiques of Boileau to obtain a reputation. When facing a disease, if it were personified in a king, he treated the patient as a Turk treats a Moor. He did not therefore reply to Mazarin as the minister expected: “Here is the doctor; goodbye disease!” On the contrary, on examining his patient, with a very serious air:
“Oh! oh!” said he.
“Eh! what! Guénaud! How you look at me!”
“I look as I should on seeing your complaint, my lord; it is a very dangerous one.”
“The gout—oh! yes, the gout.”
“With complications, my lord.”
Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow, and, questioning by look and gesture: “What do you mean by that? Am I worse than I believe myself to be?”
“My lord,” said Guénaud, seating himself beside the bed; “Your Eminence has worked very hard during your life; Your Eminence has suffered much.”
“But I am not old, I fancy. The late M. de Richelieu was but seventeen months younger than I am when he died, and died of a mortal disease. I am young, Guénaud: remember, I am scarcely fifty-two.”
“Oh! my lord, you are much more than that. How long did the Fronde last?”
“For what purpose do you put such a question to me?”
“For a medical calculation, Monseigneur.”
“Well, some ten years—off and on.”
“Very well; be kind enough to reckon every year of the Fronde as three years—that makes thirty; now twenty and fifty-two makes seventy-two years. You are seventy-two, my lord; and that is a great age.”
Whilst saying this, he felt the pulse of his patient. This pulse was full of such fatal indications, that the physician continued, notwithstanding the interruptions of the patient: “Put down the years of the Fronde at four each, and you have lived eighty-two years.”
“Are you speaking seriously, Guénaud?”
“Alas! yes, Monseigneur.”
“You take a roundabout way, then, to inform me that I am very ill?”
“Ma foi! yes, my lord, and with a man of the mind and courage of Your Eminence, it ought not to be necessary to do so.”
The cardinal breathed with such difficulty that he inspired pity even in a pitiless physician. “There are diseases and diseases,” resumed Mazarin. “From some of them people escape.”
“That is true, my lord.”
“Is it not?” cried
