“I am no child, La Martinière,” cried Louis XV, his cheeks glowing with increased fire; “and I insist upon being made acquainted with the precise nature of my present illness. You have always served me loyally and faithfully, and from you I expect to receive that candid statement every one about me seems bent upon concealing.” “Endeavour to get some sleep, sire,” rejoined La Martinière, “and do not exhaust yourself by speaking at present.” “La Martinière, you irritate me beyond all endurance. If you love me, speak out, I conjure you, and tell me, frankly, the name of my complaint.” “Do you insist upon it, sire?” “I do, my friend, I do.” “Then, sire, you have the small-pox; but be not alarmed, it is a disease as frequently cured as many others.” “The small-pox!” exclaimed the king, in a voice of horror; “have I indeed that fatal disease? and do you talk of curing it?” “Doubtless, sire; many die of it as well as other disorders, but we are sanguine in our hopes and expectations of saving your majesty.” The king made no reply, but, turned heavily in his bed and threw the coverlet over his face. A silence ensued, which lasted until the return of the physicians, when, finding they made no allusion to his condition, the king addressed them in a cool and offended tone. “Why,” said he, “have you concealed from me the fact of my having the small-pox?” This abrupt inquiry petrified them with astonishment, and unable to frame a proper reply, they stood speechless with alarm and apprehension. “Yes,” resumed the king, “but for La Martinière, I should have died in ignorance of my danger. I know now the state in which I am, and before long I shall be gathered to my forefathers.” All around him strove to combat this idea, and exerted their utmost endeavours to persuade the royal patient that his disorder had assumed the most favourable shape, and that not a shadow of danger was perceptible, but in vain; for the blow had fallen, and the hapless king, struck with a fatal presentiment of coming ill, turned a deaf ear to all they could advance. Bordeu, deeply concerned for what had transpired, hastened to announce to the duc de Richelieu the turn which had taken place in the face of affairs. Nothing could exceed the rage with which the news was received. The duke hurried to the king’s bedside. “Is it, indeed, true, sire,” inquired he, “that your majesty doubts of your perfect restoration to health? May I presume to inquire whether any circumstance has occurred to diminish your confidence in your medical attendants?” “Duc de Richelieu,” replied the king, looking as though he would search into his very soul, “I have the small-pox.”