"Sire," cried she, also trembling, "what is the matter? Mon Dieu!
I heard your cries, and I came."

"It--it is nothing," said the king, without moving his eyes,
which seemed to be looking up the air for some form invisible
to all but him.

"But your majesty cried out; is your majesty suffering?" asked
the queen.

Terror was so visibly painted on the king's countenance, that
it began to gain on the others.

"Oh, sire!" cried the queen again, "in Heaven's name do not leave
us in this suspense. Will you have a doctor?"

"A doctor, no," cried Henri, in the same tone, "the body is not
ill, it is the mind; no doctor--a confessor."

Everyone looked round; nowhere was there to be seen any traces
of what had so terrified the king. However, a confessor was sent
for; Joseph Foulon, superior of the convent of St. Genevieve,
was torn from his bed, to come to the king. With the confessor,
the tumult ceased, and silence was reestablished; everyone
conjectured and wondered--the king was confessing.

The next day the king rose early, and began to read prayers then
he ordered all his friends to be sent for. They sent to St. Luc,
but he was more suffering than ever. His sleep, or rather his