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For it seems to me that I am no longer the same man whom Michelot fished out of the Loire that night two months ago. I would thank you, Mademoiselle, for the happiness that has been mine during the past few days a happiness such as for years has not fallen to my lot.
Naturally I supposed that someone came to visit Coupri, the apothecary, to whom belonged this house in which I had my lodging, and did not give the matter a second thought until Michelot rushed in, with eyes wide open, to announce that his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, commanded my presence in the adjoining room.
"The fever is gone, Mademoiselle, and he may wake at any moment; indeed, it is strange that he should sleep so long." "He will be the better for it when he does awaken. I will remain here while you rest, Michelot. My poor fellow, you are almost as worn with your vigils as he is with the fever." "Pooh! I am strong enough, Mademoiselle," he answered.
It was my servant Michelot, a grizzled veteran of huge frame and strength, who had fought beside me at Rocroi, and who had thereafter become so enamoured of my person for some trivial service he swore I had rendered him that he had attached himself to me and my luckless fortunes. He came to inform me that M. de Mancini was below and craved immediate speech with me.
As she had promised, it was Michelot who greeted me when next I opened my eyes, on the following day. There were tears in his eyes eyes that had looked grim and unmoved upon the horrors of the battlefield. From him I learned how, after they had flung me into the river, deeming me dead already, St. Auban and his men had made off.
"That is the one," I broke in. "Quick, Michelot! Arm yourself and get your horse; I have need of you. Come, knave, move yourself!" At the end of a few minutes we set out at a sharp trot, leaving the curious ones whom my loud-voiced commands had assembled, to speculate upon the meaning of so much bustle.
Then, bidding Michelot await me, or follow did I not return in half an hour, I turned and moved away towards the chapel. There is a clearing in front of the little white edifice which rather than a temple is but a monument to the martyr who is said to have perished on that spot in the days before Clovis.
Into this coach, then, we climbed he and I. His valet, Silvio, occupied the seat beside the coachman, whilst my stalwart Michelot rode behind leading my horse by the bridle.
And I sought to struggle up into a sitting posture, but that gentle hand upon my forehead restrained and robbed me of all will that was not hers. "Hush, Monsieur!" she said softly. "Lie still. By a miracle and the faithfulness of Michelot you live. Be thankful, be content, and sleep." "But my wounds, Mademoiselle?" I inquired feebly. "They are healed."
The swift stream swirled me along towards the spot where, in the boat, Michelot awaited my return all unconscious of what was taking place. He had heard the splash, and had suddenly stood up, on the point of going ashore, when my body rose within a few feet of him. He spoke of the agony of mind wherewith he had suddenly stretched forth and clutched me by my doublet, fearing that I was indeed dead.
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