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16 the greatest possible number of things I love; and for that it is neither to the poets nor the philosophers nor the warriors I shall go. No, Lamartini^re, after God, understand, I only esteem (my mind is made up on the point) the doctors, — when they are good ones of course."

"Indeed!"

"So tell me the truth frankly, dear Lamartinière."

"I will, Sire."

" What is it I have to fear? "

" Apoplexy."

" It is a fatal complaint? "

"Yes, unless the patient is bled in time."

"Lamartinière, you shall never leave me."

"Impossible, Sire; I have my patients, my private patients."

"Very good! but it appears to me that my health, my private health, is as important to France and to Europe as that of all your patients put together. Every night your bed shall be made next to mine."

"Sire! . . ."

"What difference can it make to you whether you sleep here or elsewhere? You will reassure me by the mere fact of your presence, my dear Lamartinifere; you will frighten away the disease, I tell you, for disease knows you and knows it has no more redoubtable foe than you."

This is why the Surgeon Lamartini&re found himself, on April 25, 1774, lying on a truckle-bed in the Blue Room at Versailles about five o'clock in the morning, fast asleep, while the King for his part was lying awake.

Louis XV. who, as we have just stated, was lying awake, gave vent to a heavy sigh; but seeing that a sigh has no positive meaning by itself apart from what signification the utterer thereof attaches to it, Lamartinière, who was sleeping instead of sighing, heard it between his snores, but paid it, or rather appeared to pay it, not the smallest attention.

The King, finding that his Surgeon-in-Ordinary was insensible to this appeal, leant over the edge of the bed and by the light of the great wax candle that burned in its marble socket, gazed down at his medical attendant, whose face a thick soft blanket, drawn up to the very brim of his night-cap, hid from the most scrutinizing of looks.

"Oh dear!" moaned the King, "oh dear!"

Lamartinière heard this too; but seeing that an ejaculation may often escape a man in his sleep, there is no adequate reason for its rousing another from his slumbers. So the surgeon went on snoring.

"Lucky dog to be able to sleep like that!" muttered Louis XV. Then he added:

"What coarse, material fellows these doctors are! "—and therewith he made up his mind to wait a little longer. But after waiting a quarter of an hour to no purpose,

"Halloa, Lamartinière!" he called at last.

"Well, what is it. Sire?" asked his Majesty's doctor with a growl.

"Ah! my poor Lamartmière," repeated the King, groaning as dismally as he could.

" Well, what is it? "—and the surgeon, grumbling and grunting like a man who is sure his position will shield him, slipped out of bed,—to find the King seated on the side of his.

"Well, Sire, are you ill? " he asked.

"I think I am, my dear Lamartiniere," replied his Majesty.

"Ah! I see you are somewhat agitated."

"Very much agitated, yes."

"What at?"

"I have no notion."

"But I have," muttered the surgeon; "it is fear that is the matter with you."

"Feel my pulse, Lamartinière."

"Exactly what I am doing."

"Well?"

"Well, Sire, it beats eighty four to the minute,—which is very good for an old man."

"P'or an old man, Lamartinière?"

"Certainly."

"I am only sixty four; at sixty four a man is not old yet."

"A man is no longer young at any rate."

"Come now, what do you prescribe?"

"First, what do you feel?"

"I am stifling, I seem to be stifling."

"On the contrary you are cold."

"I must be red in the face."

"Nonsense, you are quite pale. One piece of advice, Sire,—try to get to sleep; it would really oblige us."

"I am not sleepy now."