“Oh! oh!” said he.

“Eh! what! Guenaud! How you look at me!”

“I look as I should on seeing your complaint, my lord; it is a very dangerous one.”

“The gout — oh! yes, the gout.”

“With complications, my lord.”

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow, and, questioning by look and gesture: “What do you mean by that? Am I worse than I believe myself to be?”

“My lord,” said Guenaud, seating himself beside the bed; “your eminence has worked very hard during your life; your eminence has suffered much.”

“But I am not old, I fancy. 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.”