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The disease, as Guenaud had predicted, had become worse; it was no longer an attack of gout, it was an attack of death; then there was another thing which made that agony more agonizing still, and that was the agitation brought into his mind by the donation he had sent to the king, and which, according to Colbert, the king ought to send back unaccepted to the cardinal.
At the same time inarticulate murmurs escaped his lips." The count, much moved by the wretched spectacle, summoned the attendant, and awoke the cardinal. Mazarin, in awaking, betrayed that troubled state of soul which had thus agitated his body. In most melancholy tones, he said, "My physician, M. Guénaud, has informed me that I can live but a few days."
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 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."
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."
Guenaud, on his part, preserved profound secrecy; wearied with visits and questions, he answered nothing but "his eminence is still full of youth and strength, but God wills that which He wills, and when He has decided that man is to be laid low, he will be laid low."
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, Guenaud?" "Alas! yes, monseigneur." "You take a roundabout way, then, to inform me that I am very ill?"
The king, shut up in his own apartment, dispatched his nurse every hour to Mazarin's chamber, with orders to bring him back an exact bulletin of the cardinal's state. After having heard that Mazarin was dressed, painted, and had seen the ambassadors, Louis herd that the prayers for the dying were being read for the cardinal. At one o'clock in the morning, Guenaud had administered the last remedy.
Guenaud was about to open his mouth, but Mazarin continued: "Remember," said he, "I am the most confiding of your patients; remember I obey you blindly, and that consequently " "I know all that," said Guenaud. "I shall be cured, then?"
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 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."
"My lord," replied Guenaud, in a firm voice, "it is God who can give you days of grace, and not I. God only allows you a fortnight." The cardinal breathed a painful sigh, and sank back upon his pillow, murmuring, "Thank you, Guenaud, thank you!" The physician was about to depart; the dying man, raising himself up: "Silence!" said he, with flaming eyes, "silence!"
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