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There is to be an autopsy. One of the great physicians advises it." Irène uttered a shriek of agony and dropped on her knees. "Run!" she cried, "the truth must be made known at once. Oh! save him!" Gudel tore his hair. Suddenly a thought struck him. "Who is the physician?" "Dr. Albant, from the Tuileries." Iron Jaws reflected. He took Irène's hands in his.
Fanfar was alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments touched some vital organ. The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large apron.
The body, therefore, was carried on a litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old. A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was prepared. This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed.
"Gentlemen, excuse me the king communicates with me!" A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles, turned to the students, saying: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence." "But the autopsy?"
Trying the edge of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians, and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem. "We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel on the tender flesh. "Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice. The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the doorway.
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