Sganarelle. With the hypocrisy?

Thibaut. Yes; I mean she is swollen everywhere. They say that there is a lot of seriosities in her inside, and that her liver, her belly, or her spleen, as you would call it, instead of making blood makes nothing but water. She has, every other day, the quotiguian fever, with lassitude and pains in the muscles of her legs. We can hear in her throat phlegms that are ready to choke her, and she is often taken with syncoles and conversions, so that we think she is going off the hooks. We have got in our village an apothecary—with respect be it said—who has given her, I do not know how much stuff; and it has cost me more than a dozen good crowns in clysters, saving your presence, in apostumes which he has made her swallow, in infections of hyacinth, and in cordial potions. But all this, as people say, was nothing but an ointment of fiddle-faddle. He wanted to give her a certain drug called ametile wine; but I was downright afeard that this would send her to the other world altogether; because they tell me that those big physicians kill, I do not know how many, with that new-fangled notion.

Sganarelle (still holding out his hand, and moving it about to show that he wants money). Let us come to the point, friend, let us come to the point.

Thibaut. The point is, Sir, that we have come to beg of you to tell us what we must do.

Sganarelle. I do not understand you at all.

Perrin. My mother is ill, Sir, and here are two crowns which we have brought you to give us some stuff.

Sganarelle. Ah! you I do understand. There is a lad who speaks clearly, and explains himself as he should. You say that your mother is ill with the dropsy; that she is swollen all over her body; that she has a fever, with pains in the legs; that she sometimes is taken with syncopes and convulsions, that is to say with fainting fits.

Perrin. Indeed, Sir! that is just it.

Sganarelle. I understand you at once. Your father does not know what he says. And now you ask me for a remedy?

Perrin. Yes, sir.

Sganarelle. A remedy to cure her?

Perrin. That is just what I mean.

Sganarelle. Take this then. It is a piece of cheese which you must make her take.

Perrin. A piece of cheese, Sir?

Sganarelle. Yes; it is a kind of prepared cheese, in which there is gold, coral, and pearls, and a great many other precious things.

Perrin. I am very much obliged to you, Sir, and I shall go and make her take it directly.

Sganarelle. Go, and if she dies, do not fail to bury her in the best style you can.

Scene III.—(The Scene changes, and represents, as in the Second Act, a room in Géronte’s house)—Jacqueline, Sganarelle, Lucas, at the far end of the stage.

Sganarelle. Here is the pretty nurse. Ah! you darling nurse, I am delighted at this meeting; and the sight of you is like rhubarb, cassia, and senna to me, which purges all melancholy from my mind.