Inside a tent in the rest area on the eastern side of the Royal Hunting Ground, the accompanying imperial physician, Mark Antoine Potti, wiped Queen Mary's face with a wet towel, and she quickly came to.
Joseph hurried to crouch beside the stretcher and asked his mother softly, "How do you feel?"
Queen Mary forced a weak smile. "I'm fine, dear. I was probably tired from the hunt. Oh, could you get me a glass of water? I'm very thirsty."
Countess de Berninac hurriedly brought over a cup of water.
Queen Mary drank three cups in succession before letting out a long breath. "I feel much better. Don't worry."
Doctor Potti leaned closer. "Your Highness, Her Majesty the Queen is extremely weak. I need to inject her with Glucose now. Please step aside with His Majesty the King."
At present, the entire European medical community regarded Glucose as a "universal miracle drug." No matter what symptoms a patient had, doctors could hardly go wrong by starting with a syringe of it—provided the patient could afford the exorbitant cost.
It was especially Potti's specialty for cases like the Queen's, where the patient had collapsed from weakness.
Suppressing his anxiety, Joseph pulled his father and Charles aside.
Charles, however, could not calm down at all. He kept questioning the doctor. "Mister Potti, what exactly is wrong with Mother? She was perfectly fine this morning..." Seeing that his assistant was still preparing the Syringe, the imperial physician bowed to him. "Your Highness, based on my preliminary examination, there are many possibilities. Stroke, Gout, Chest Bi, Body Fluid Imbalance, Nephrosclerosis, Excessive Body Fluid Loss, and so on could all cause Her Majesty's present condition."
Listening to those terms steeped in "ancient medicine," Joseph could not help frowning. Although most French doctors had begun studying