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 Fere 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 that 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 unfrequent 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 had heard that sigh. Immediately
after, the prince took leave and the king left the
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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?”
“Guenaud — let Guenaud 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
Honore.
CHAPTER 43
Guenaud
The cardinal’s order was pressing; Guenaud 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 Guenaud: “Ah!” said he; “now I am
saved!”
Guenaud 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; good-bye disease!” On the contrary, on
examining his patient, with a very serious air:
“Oh! oh!” said he.
“Eh! what! Guenaud! 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 Guenaud, 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, Guenaud: remember, I am
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
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
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