One of the many attendants that hover about his bed (each one hoping to be remembered in that will of his, of which all Paris has heard), flies to fetch him. He appears in the person of Guénaud, the Court doctor of that day. Mazarin has revived a little. He is propped up on pillows, to relieve his breathing, which, by reason of the oppression on his chest, is laboured and difficult. At the sight of Guénaud he trembles; his teeth chatter. He has summoned the leech, and now he dares not hear what he has to say. Mazarin, with his sensuous Italian temperament, clings wildly to life. He shrinks from the dark horrors of the grave—he, who adores sunshine, warmth, open air, and beauty. "Well, Guénaud, well. You are in haste to come to me." "Your eminence sent for me," replied the physician gravely, bowing to the ground; then he contemplates the Cardinal with that all-seeing eye for obvious symptoms and for remote details, that makes the glance of a doctor so awful to the sick. "I—I am better, Guénaud—much better, _now_; I had fatigued myself among my pictures. But I did much, Guénaud—I did _too_ much. I even crawled to my stables—to my garden; I am gaining strength. To-morrow——" Mazarin stops; a severe fit of coughing almost suffocates him. Again the ashy hue—grey as the shadows of departing day when the sun has set—overcasts his features. Guénaud does not reply, but still contemplates his patient attentively. The Cardinal looks up; a hectic colour flushes his cheeks. "Come," says he, "speak; be honest with me. I am better?" Guénaud bows. "I trust so," replies he. "_Sangue di Dio!_"—and the Cardinal grows crimson, and clenches his thin fingers with nervous agony—"speak. Your silence agitates me. What have you to tell me? How long have I to live? Shall I recover?" Guénaud shakes his head. Mazarin's face again becomes of a sudden deadly pale. He leans back on his pillows, and sniffs a strong essence in a filigree bottle lying by his side. "Guénaud," says he, "I dread death, but I am no coward. I am prepared for the worst." "I rejoice to hear it," answers the physician solemnly, feeling his pulse. "You will have need of all your fortitude." "Is it so? Well, then, let me hear my fate!" "Your eminence cannot live long. Nothing can save you." A strange look of determination comes into the Cardinal's eyes as Guénaud speaks. Mazarin was, as he said, no coward; but the flesh was weaker than the spirit, and shrank from suffering and disease. Now that he has heard the truth, he bears it better than would appear possible in one so slight, nervous, and attenuated. "I cannot flatter your eminence," continues Guénaud, "your disease is incurable; but I admit that remedies may prolong your life, though they cannot preserve it. Remedies, ably administered, can do much, even in fatal cases." "I respect your frankness, doctor," says the Cardinal calmly. "Speak out, how long can I last?"