BISHOP. Leave me thy birds’-nest. And, Nurse, let him at the same time be neatly dressed. Perhaps in some old suit of Monseigneur’s. BEPPO (_annoyed_). Old suit? BISHOP. They are of the same age and height. And to play with Monseigneur in those rags!—(_As BEPPO still lingers._) Go, my child. NURSE. Come! I will give thee the best washing!— BEPPO (_with recovered spirits_). I am not afraid. Thou art only an old woman! NURSE. Ah! Sayest thou? BEPPO (_whispers, shaking a finger in her face_). ’Ssh, old woman! ’Ssh! (_So they leave the chamber, the Nurse angrily pushing him out in front of her._) BISHOP (_tenderly, over BEPPO’S birds’-nest_). Little, hungry, weak birds! There is something infinitely pathetic, Doctor, in these young things of Nature. DOCTOR (_gloomily_). So many of them die. BISHOP. It seems so; even without the aid of a surgeon. (_He hands the Doctor the nest, who, not knowing what else to do with it, nor how to reply to the Bishop’s impertinence, places it on the ledge of the high and sloping couvre-feu over the fireplace._) DOCTOR. There! The heat will do them good; nourish them. For heat is life. _Calor est vita optima._ (_Mumbling and muttering to himself._) Galen hath said it.—Galen!— BISHOP (_after a long pause, softly_). Doctor Mabrise—tell me—is there no way, no hope, of keeping Monseigneur alive? DOCTOR (_warming his thin brown hands in front of the fire_). My science knows none; she is at her wits’ end. And when science is at her wits’ end⸺ BISHOP (_drily_). Methinks she hath but a short road to travel! DOCTOR (_piqued_). Then let the Church try, my good Bishop; let the Church try. For if ever there were need for one of your miracles⸺ BISHOP (_gravely_). Ah! DOCTOR (_points to the bed_). There is your subject, ready for you; waiting. A dying child. You have my authority to begin. BISHOP (_drily_). Then we will begin by opening the windows; we will admit some of this soft spring air. (_He unlatches and throws wide open one of the few windows of the bedchamber; while the Doctor, himself a poor consumptive, shivers and cowers over the fire._) You don’t like it? DOCTOR (_angrily_). Seeing that all diseases enter by the mouth! BISHOP (_amused_). What? In springtime? In Provence? DOCTOR (_grumbles_). Especially in springtime. Always! (_Mumbling, with cloak drawn over his mouth._) Plague and fever! BISHOP. At any rate, Doctor, you will agree with me that if Monseigneur dies it means ruin for the Duchy. DOCTOR (_scornfully_). If? BISHOP. There will infallibly be civil war here all through the summer. There will be neither harvest nor vintage! DOCTOR (_shortly_). I agree. BISHOP. And in the autumn, here, in the very palace of Monseigneur, will most surely be found securely seated that dangerous ruffian, the Comte de Poix. An infidel; a pronounced foe to Holy Church! While you and I, my good friend⸺