“Sire,” I murmured, “--such a little cloud--to hide the sun of
Majesty!”
He stared at me, and down at himself. “I am the king,” he muttered;
“is it not so?”
The officer hurried to him, and whispered in his ear.
“Eh!” he exclaimed, “my wife’s physician? You find me very distraught,
madam, very overtasked. I am so constituted I never could abide
thunder”--and he was off again.
“Monsieur,” I whispered, “if we could get him prostrated on a sofa.”
“Ah!” replied the officer, “for myself, it would be madness. But
you--you are beautiful--you may dare.”
I did not hesitate, but, stealing catlike to a couch, took the
opportunity of His Majesty’s passing to seize him by his wing-cases,
and with such effect that in a moment he was sprawling on his back on
the cushions, with his legs in the air. Then, before he could protest
or avoid me, I had clapped the duck-stone to his nostrils. Instantly
the convulsion of his limbs relaxed, and a great sigh heaved itself
out of his depths. His wig had tumbled off; his brows were dark over
goggle eyes; he had a long, aquiline nose falling to a slack jaw.
Imagine all this revealing itself in an expression of the most perfect
contentment and idiocy.
The soldier tiptoed across, and looked down scared.
“God in heaven, madam!” he whispered, “what have you done to His
Majesty? He is not himself.”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” I said; “never so much so.”
He came round in about ten minutes, and gazed at me in a sort of
affectionate beatitude.
“_Dio mercè!_” he murmured; “I dreamt I was in purgatory, and awake
to find myself in paradise. Another dose--one more.”