Esther was not mistaken in her surmise that the doctor was by choice at
least more of a scientist than a physician. Patients he had to be
sure, a respectable number, composed mostly of English and American
tourists, well-to-do people. Esther thought that if he had been more
keenly interested or a better business man he might have developed his
practice into a large and lucrative one. She recognised in him the
sure instinct of the natural diagnostician, she knew enough to realise
that his methods and knowledge were up to date. Even that manner of
his, though a little forbidding, had the merit of inspiring confidence.
One felt he was a big man and could afford to dispense with geniality.
Yet it was perfectly apparent that his practice never came first with
him. Esther had not been in the house with him half a week before she
made that discovery. Every free minute of the day found him engrossed
in his experiments, to the utter exclusion of all else, so intolerant
of interruption that he more than once kept patients waiting a quarter
of an hour in the gloomy salon while he finished some piece of work.
The laboratory, with which Esther quickly became familiar, was at the
top of the house, up two flights of stairs, a bare, L-shaped room built
originally for a studio. A sloping skylight admitted a strong north
light, which streamed down on the long table covered with all the
paraphernalia of research. There were two glass cabinets containing
bottles of many descriptions, and a plain Normandy oak armoire, fitted
with shelves upon which were specimens and materials for work. A fibre
mat and a couple of kitchen chairs completed the furnishings of the
main part, but in a sort of alcove which formed the base of the L, and
which was curtained off by thick red hangings, was a camp bed with a
table beside it and a chest of drawers. Here, so she was told by
Jacques the servant, the doctor not infrequently slept when he had
carried on his labours far into the night. He would drop down on the
hard bed at perhaps five in the morning, just as he was, in his shirt
and trousers, with only an old army blanket over him, and there he
would sleep like a dead man till Jacques brought him his tea.
Esther learned a good deal from Jacques who, despite his desperado
exterior, proved to be friendly and communicative, glad no doubt of
someone to chat with since his master was so particularly reserved.
His master, Jacques confided about the third day, was not a man at all
but a machine. Work, work, work--day and night, no thought for
comfort, no distractions, no voices. _Voyons!_ It was against nature
when a man lived like that. And what did he get for it?
"_Écoutez, mademoiselle_," the little man of the Midi said to her
earnestly, laying his finger on her arm, "if the doctor worked only one
half so hard--only one half, now I am telling you--he could be a rich
man to-day, with a palace, three, four cars, a chauffeur, a _valet de
chambre_. It is only because he spends his time up there in that room
that he makes so little money."
Esther knew that he was right, although she understood better than he
the unworldly aims of the man.
Jacques had more to tell her. Such was the doctor's complete
stupidity, not to be comprehended by rational beings, that whenever he
had a little money put aside he would shut up shop and take a holiday,
so as to be able to devote all his days to research.
"Mademoiselle knows that is not a way to do," complained Jacques in an
aggrieved voice. "People think he not practise any more, they find
another doctor. Many, many times he lose patients that way. _Quelle
bêtise, voyons!_"
"He must have been practising pretty steadily now for some time,"
remarked Esther, "to have as good a practice as he seems to have."
"Ah, yes, it is long now, for him, and I think he gets now what you
English call fed-up. I believe he would like to throw it all up
to-morrow, but he cannot. It is the season, there are many English
here. Later, in the summer, perhaps, he take a rest."
These confidences took place chiefly at _déjeuner_, which Esther ate
alone in the _salle à manger_, a room more cheerful than the salon,
being on the sunny side of the house. The doctor, consecrating the
lunch hour to work, had his meal brought to the laboratory on a tray.
The food was excellent, in the best French bourgeois style, cooked and
served by Jacques, who did all the work of the place with the help of a
_femme de ménage_ in the mornings. He was frankly delighted when
Esther did justice to his dishes.
"Mademoiselle will have a little more of the _blanquette de veau_," he
would say pleadingly. "It is very good, yes, the _champignons_ I
choose myself. The doctor up there will eat whatever I give him. If
it is bread and cheese it make no difference, but I, I say to him, '_Il
faut que cette demoiselle soit nourié!_'"
He was the one human element in the establishment, Jacques, and his
familiarity was not offensive.
As for her employer, Esther decided that she could live at close
quarters with him for a year and know him no better than she did now.
At the end of a week she regarded him as an unknown quantity. A man of
one idea, extraordinarily concentrated, methodical, abstracted, without
friends, no outside interests whatever. That is all she could gather.
Silent, yet hardly secretive, he merely gave her the impression that he
had nothing he wished to impart. He was not curious about other
people, why should they want to know about him? Not by any stretch of
imagination could she connect him with a human emotion. He never asked
her a question about herself or her antecedents, and only once did he
volunteer any information in regard to himself, and then it seemed as
though for a moment he was thinking aloud. He referred absent-mindedly
to a time when he lived in Algeria, mentioning the fact that for almost
two years he was able to experiment without interruption.
"I had a bit of money," he remarked, "a windfall..."
"I suppose someone died and left you a legacy," suggested Esther,
washing test-tubes at the basin in the corner.
He appeared to have forgotten the subject, but presently he roused
himself to reply:
"Eh? What was that?" he murmured vaguely, holding a tube up to the
light. "There is a sediment here, certainly.... Yes, that was it. A
legacy. I lived on it for two years, then I had to go back to the
grind again."
Esther was curious to know more about the research which so completely
absorbed him, but he was not eager to talk about it. Still, by
watching him and prodding him occasionally with direct questions, she
discovered what she wanted to know. Two of his serums were in general
use; she had heard of them. Indeed, she knew enough to be impressed.
This was a valuable man of science; why, he might yet be awarded the
Nobel prize; his discoveries were quite important enough to merit it.
Yet she suspected that the idea of fame had never entered his head, he
worked for the love of it. He was engaged now in trying to find
anti-toxins for certain deadly diseases, tetanus for one. When she
thought of the extent to which his efforts might benefit humanity, she
felt inclined to forget the man's repellent personality in the dignity
of his accomplishments.
As for what she had to do, she found it neither very difficult nor very
tiring--not half so hard as ordinary nursing. While the doctor was out
on a round of visits, she put the laboratory to rights, arranging
everything neatly and in perfect order, for that was of paramount
importance to her employer; then she attended to the small amount of
clerical work that fell to her task, answered the telephone, and made
appointments. In the afternoon there was a fairly steady stream of
patients for consultations, and she was kept moderately busy, yet with
frequent moments in which to sit down and read or "have a go" at her
French grammar.
The evenings at her hotel threatened to be a little dull; she did not
care to go alone to the Casino and, barring the cinema, there was not
much in the way of distraction. Still, she was far from regretting her
determination to stay in Cannes. She wrote long letters to her sisters
in Canada, to Miss Ferriss in Bousaada, to a certain young doctor in
New York, who for years had lavished on her an unrewarded devotion.
She thought of him dimly as belonging to another life. Already she had
slipped into new habits, fresh ways of thinking. She planned
excursions for Saturday afternoons and Sundays, meaning to see as much
of this country as possible while she had the chance.
"If only Jean were here, what fun we'd have!" she reflected regretfully.
Jean was her favourite sister, now a librarian in Montreal.
At the end of the week something happened. Late one afternoon a
patient arrived who had no appointment. Jacques admitted her, went up
to tell the doctor, who had thought consultations over for the day,
then, returning, spoke to Esther in the _salle à manger_.
"It is Lady Clifford," he whispered. "It is the second time now she
come like this. Always before, the doctor he go to her."
Esther knew the name, her book had told her that the doctor paid
regular visits to a Lady Clifford. She turned up the visits for the
next day. Yes, there it was, Thursday, Lady Clifford, 11.30.
She heard the doctor's heavy step on the stairs, so she hastily
replaced the crisp white coif she had removed a moment ago and repaired
to the salon. A slender woman was standing at the window looking out
and tapping her foot with nervous impatience. She was smartly dressed
in black, with a magnificent silver fox about her shoulders.
"Will you come this way, please," said Esther. "The doctor will see
you."
The woman turned suddenly and Esther received a shock of surprise. It
was the blonde woman of the _Restaurant des Ambassadeurs_. As she was
French it had never occurred to Esther to connect her with the unknown
Lady Clifford. For a moment she felt self-conscious, afraid lest the
beautiful patient should recognise her. But no, there was no need for
alarm, the Frenchwoman passed her with a brief, incurious glance.
Probably on that former occasion she had never noticed Esther at all,
or if she had, the nurse's uniform was sufficient to effect a complete
alteration. Who was this exquisite creature, French, but with an
English name? All Esther's curiosity returned in full force.
Dr. Sartorius stood, heavy and uncompromising, beside the flat mahogany
desk. He scarcely took the step forward which courtesy demanded.
Surely his manners were the least ingratiating Esther had ever known in
a professional man!
"Forgive me, doctor, for coming like this," the patient began
impulsively. "But to-morrow morning I find I cannot be at home, and I
do hate to miss my _piqûre_!"
"Very well, you can have it now."
That was his grudging response to an appeal full of winning charm.
Women and their fascination had evidently no part in his life.
"Ah, that is good of you! It puts strength into me--and I have need of
all my strength. I"--she paused to moisten her lips--"I wish also to
have a word with you again about my husband."
"Oh?"
She had stripped off her gloves and was clasping and unclasping her
hands.
"Yes, I--I don't feel quite so satisfied about him as I did. I want to
ask you some questions."
While she was speaking, the doctor, having signed to Esther to remain,
had opened a drawer and was taking out several small bottles which he
examined one after the other.
"Miss Rowe," he said, "all these are empty. On the top shelf in the
oak cupboard in the laboratory you will find a full one. Bring it to
me, please."
He extended an empty bottle for her to see the label.
"Yes, doctor, I won't be a minute," Esther replied, and hastened out,
closing the door behind her.
She ran up the two flights of stairs without stopping to take breath,
and looked into the Normandy armoire, but neither on the top shelf nor
any of the others could she find what she wanted. She went over the
contents of the cupboard a second time to make sure, examining the
labels of various drugs, chemicals, serums, cultures. What was this
new bottle? Tetanus--horrible! She gave a slight shudder, realising
that the stuff in that bottle was enough to give lockjaw to half the
inhabitants in Cannes. No, the doctor was mistaken, the mixture she
sought was not here.
Rather more slowly than she had come up, she retraced her steps to the
bottom floor. At the last landing she stopped, listening acutely.
"_Non, non, je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas le faire!_"
It was the Frenchwoman's voice, high-pitched, emotional, the protest
wrung from her as if in agony. What was she saying? A rapid stream of
French followed--Esther could not catch a word of it--then at the end a
phrase or two that was intelligible.
"_Je vous jure, je mourrais--je mourrais_...."
The doctor's voice cut in upon her, dominating, brutal even, a tone
that caused Esther to gasp and clutch the stair-rail.
"Stop that! Stop that nonsense! Are you an utter fool?" It was like
bidding a dog to lie down. Silence followed, then a stifled sob.