perhaps our readers, remembering in what a position we left M. de Charny, will not dislike to return with us to that little antechamber at Versailles into which this brave seaman, who feared neither men nor elements, had fled, lest he should show his weakness to the queen. Once arrived there, he felt it impossible to go further; he stretched out his arras, and was only saved from falling to the ground by the aid of those around. He then fainted, and was totally ignorant that the queen had seen him, and would have run to his assistance had Andree not prevented her, more even from a feeling of jealousy than from regard for appearances. Immediately after the king entered, and seeing a man lying, supported by two guards, who, unaccustomed to see men faint, scarcely knew what to do, advanced, saying, “Some one is ill here.”
At his voice the men started and let their burden fall.
“Oh!” cried the king, “it is M. de Charny. Place him on this couch, gentlemen.” Then they brought him restoratives, and sent for a doctor.
The king waited to hear the result. The doctor's first care was to open the waistcoat and shirt of the young man to give him air, and then he saw the wound.
“Yes,” said M. de Charny, faintly, “an old wound, which has re-opened;” and he pressed the hand of the doctor to make him understand.
But this was not a court doctor, who understands everything; so, willing to show his knowledge, “Old, sir! this wound is not twenty-four hours old.”
Charny raised himself at this, and said, “Do you teach me, sir, when I received my wound?” Then, turning round, he cried, “The king!” and hastened to button his waistcoat.
“Yes, M. de Charny, who fortunately arrived in time, to procure you assistance.”
“A mere scratch, sire,” stammered Charny, “an old wound.”
“Old or new,” replied Louis, “it has shown me the blood of a brave man.”
“Whom a couple of hours in bed will quite restore,” continued Charny, trying to rise; but his strength failed him, his head swam, and he sank back again.
“He is very ill,” said the king.
“Yes, sire,” said the doctor, with importance, “but I can cure him.”
The king understood well that M. de Charny wished to hide some secret from him, and determined to respect it. “I do not wish,” said he, “that M. de Charny should run the risk of being moved; we will take care of him here. Let M. de Suffren be called, this gentleman recompensed, and my own physician, Dr. Louis, be sent for.”
While one officer went to execute these orders, two others carried Charny into a room at the end of the gallery. Dr. Louis and M. de Suffren soon arrived. The latter understood nothing of his nephew's illness. “It is strange,” said he; “do you know, doctor, I never knew my nephew ill before.”
“That proves nothing,” replied the doctor.
“The air of Versailles must be bad for him.”
“It is his wound,” said one of the officers.
“His wound!” cried M. de Suffren; “he never was wounded in his life.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said the officer, opening the shirt covered with blood, “but I thought—”
“Well,” said the doctor, who began to see the state of the case, “do not let us lose time disputing over the cause, but see what can be done to cure him.”
“Is it dangerous, doctor?” asked M. de Suffren with anxiety.
M. de Suffren took his leave and left Charny with the doctor. Fever commenced, and before long he was delirious. Three hours after, the doctor called a servant and told him to take Charny in his arms, who uttered doleful cries. “Roll the sheet over his head,” said the doctor.
“But,” said the man, “he struggles so much that I must ask assistance from one of the guards.”
“Are you afraid of a sick man, sir? If he is too heavy for you, you are not strong enough for me. I must send you back to Auvergne.” This threat had its effect. Charny, crying, fighting, and gesticulating, was carried by the man through the guards.
Some of the officers questioned the doctor.
“Oh! gentlemen,” said he, “this gallery is too far off for me; I must have him in my own rooms.”
“But I assure you, doctor, we would all have looked after him here. We all love M. de Suffren.”
“Oh yes, I know your sort of care! The sick man is thirsty, and you give him something to drink, and kill him.”
“Now there remains but one danger,” said the doctor to himself, as he followed Charny, “that the king should want to visit him, and if he hear him—Diable! I must speak to the queen.” The good doctor, therefore, having bathed the head and face of his patient with cold water, and seen him safe in bed, went out and locked the door on him, leaving his servant to look after him. He went toward the queen's apartments, and met Madame de Misery, who had just been dispatched to ask after the patient.
“But, doctor, the queen waits for intelligence.”
“The queen shall know all she wishes. I will take care of that.”
