"How much milk did he drink?" the
physician asked after a pause.
"More than half a pint," I answered.
"And what besides?"
"A quantity of the King's posset, and a little lemonade."
"And for supper? What did you have?" the leech continued,
addressing himself to his patient.
"I had some wine," he answered feebly. "And a little Frontignac
with the butler; and some honey-mead that the gipsy-wench gave
me.
"The gipsy-wench?"
"The butler's girl, of whom I spoke."
M. Du Laurens rose slowly to his feet, and, to my amazement,
dealt the prostrate man a hearty kick; bidding him at the same
time to rise. "Get up, fool! Get up," he continued harshly, yet
with a ring of triumph in his voice, "all you have got is the
colic, and it is no more than you deserve. Get up, I say, and
beg his Majesty's pardon!"
"But," the King remonstrated in a tone of anger, "the man is
dying!"
"He is no more dying than you are, sire," the other answered.
"Or, if he is, it is of fright. There, he can stand as well as
you or I!"
And to be sure, as he spoke, La Trape scrambled to his feet, and
with a mien between shame and doubt stood staring at us, the very
picture of a simpleton.
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