THE HOSPITAL.
It will be remembered that Fleur-de-Marie, saved by La Louve, had been
conveyed not far from the Isle du Ravageur to the country-house of
Doctor Griffon, one of the surgeons of the hospital, to whom we shall
now introduce the reader. This learned doctor, who had obtained from
high influence his position in the hospital, considered the wards as a
kind of school of experiments, where he tried on the poor the remedies
and applications which he afterwards used with his rich clients.
These terrible experiments were, indeed, a human sacrifice made on the
altar of science; but Doctor Griffon did not think of that. In the eyes
of this prince of science, as they say in our days, the hospital
patients were only a matter of study and experiment; and as, after all,
there resulted from his essays occasionally a useful fact or a discovery
acquired by science, the doctor showed himself as ingenuously satisfied
and triumphant as a general after a victory which has been costly in
soldiers.
Nothing could be more melancholy than the sombre appearance of the vast
ward of the hospital, into which we now introduce the reader. The length
of its high, dark walls, pierced here and there with grated windows like
those of a prison, was filled with two rows of beds parallel, and
faintly lighted by the sepulchral glare of a lamp hanging from the
ceiling. The atmosphere is so nauseous, so heavy, that the fresh
patients frequently did not become accustomed to it without danger, and
this increase of suffering is a sort of tax which every newcomer
invariably pays for his miserable sojourn in the hospital. In one of the
beds was the corpse of a patient who had just died.
Amongst the females who did not sleep, and who had been present whilst
the priest performed the last rites with the dying woman, were three
persons whose names have been already mentioned in this history,--Mlle.
de Fermont, the daughter of the unfortunate widow ruined by the cupidity
of Jacques Ferrand; La Lorraine, the poor laundress, to whom
Fleur-de-Marie had formerly given the small sum of money she had left;
and Jeanne Duport, the sister of Pique-Vinaigre.
La Lorraine was a woman about twenty, with mild and regular features,
but extremely pale and thin; she was consumptive to the last degree, and
there was no hope of saving her. She was aware of her condition, and was
slowly dying.
"There is another gone!" said La Lorraine, in a faint voice, and
speaking to herself. "She will suffer no more; she is very happy!"
"She is very happy if she has no children!" added Jeanne.
"Aren't you asleep, neighbour?" asked La Lorraine. "How are you after
your first night here? Last night, when you came in, they made you go to
bed directly, and I dared not speak to you, because I heard you sob so."
"Yes, I cried a good deal; but I went to sleep at last, and only awoke
when the noise of the doors roused me; and when the priest and the
sisters came in and knelt down; I saw it was some woman who was dying,
and I said a _Pater_ and _Ave_ for her."
"And so did I; and, as I am ill with the same complaint as she had, I
could not help crying out, 'There is one who suffers no more; she is
very happy!'"
"Yes, as I said, if she has no children."
"Then you have children?"
"Three!" said Pique-Vinaigre's sister with a sigh. "And you?"
"I had a little girl, but I did not keep her long. The poor babe was
injured before she was born,--and I was so wretched during my pregnancy!
I am a washerwoman in the boats, and worked as long as I could. But
everything has an end, and when my strength failed me, bread failed me
also. They turned me out of my lodging; and I do not know what would
have become of me if a poor woman had not taken me into a cellar, where
she was hiding from her husband, who had sworn he would kill her. There
I was brought to bed on the straw; but, thanks to goodness, the good
woman knew a young girl as good and charitable as an angel from heaven.
This young girl had a little money, and took me from the cellar, and put
me in a furnished room, where she paid a month in advance, and gave me,
besides, a wicker cradle for my baby, and forty francs, with a little
linen besides. Thanks to her, I was enabled to resume my work."
"Kind girl! Well, and I, also, met by chance with such another, a young,
hard-working sempstress. I was going to see my poor brother, who is a
prisoner," said Jeanne, after a moment's hesitation, "and met this
work-girl in the prison; and when she heard me tell my brother that I
was not happy, she came to me and offered me all in her power, poor
girl! I accepted her offer, and she gave me her address; and two days
afterwards dear little Mlle. Rigolette--she is called Rigolette--sent me
an order."
"Rigolette!" exclaimed Lorraine; "how strange! The young girl who was so
generous to me often mentioned the name of Mlle. Rigolette in my
hearing; they were great friends."
"Well, then," said Jeanne, smiling sadly, "since we are neighbours in
bed, we should be friends like our two benefactresses."
"With all my heart! My name is Annette Gerbier, called La Lorraine, a
washerwoman."
"And I am Jeanne Duport, a fringe-maker. Oh, it is so fortunate to find
in this melancholy place some one not quite a stranger to you,
especially when you come for the first time, and are very full of
trouble. But don't let us talk of that! Tell me, Lorraine, what was the
name of the young girl who was so kind to you?"
"She was called Goualeuse, and was exceedingly handsome, with light
brown hair and blue eyes, so soft--oh, so soft! Unfortunately, in spite
of her assistance, my poor babe died at two months old. It was so puny,
it could hardly breathe!" and La Lorraine wiped a tear from her eye.
"And your husband?"
"I am not married. I washed by the day at a rich tradesman's in my
country, and had always been prudent; but the master's son whispered his
tales in my ear, and then--When I found in what a state I was, I dared
not remain any longer in the country, and M. Jules gave me fifty francs
to take me to Paris, assuring me that he would send me twenty francs
every month for my lying-in; but since I left I have not had one sou,
not even a message. I wrote to him once, but he sent me no answer; and I
was afraid to write again, as I saw he did not wish to hear any more of
me."
"At least he ought not to have forgotten you, if it was only for the
sake of the child!"
"That was the reason; he was angry with me for being in the family way,
because it embarrassed him. I regret my child for myself, but not on its
own account, poor little darling! It must have been miserable, and have
been an orphan very early, for I have not long to live."
"Oh, you ought not to have such ideas at your age. Have you been long
ill?"
"Nearly three months. Why, when I had to work for myself and my child, I
began too soon. The winter was very cold; I was attacked with a cold on
my chest. I lost my child at this time, too; and nursing her, I
neglected myself, and then my sorrow; so that I fell into a
consumption--decided--like the actress who has just died."
"There's always hope at your age!"
"The actress was only two years older than I am."
"What, was she an actress who is just dead?"
"Yes. And see what fate is! She had been as beautiful as daylight, and
had money, carriages, diamonds; but, unfortunately, the smallpox
disfigured her, and then came want and misery, and, at last, death in a
hospital. No one ever came to see her; and yet, four or five days ago,
she told me, she had written to a gentleman whom she had formerly known
in her gay days, and who had been much in love with her. She wrote to
him to beg him to claim her dead body, because she was wretched at the
idea of thinking she would be dissected--cut in pieces."
"And did the gentleman come?"
"No. Every moment she was asking for him and perpetually saying, 'Oh,
he'll come! Oh, he'll be sure to come!' And yet she died without any one
coming, and what she so much dreaded will befall her poor frame. After
having been rich and happy, to die so is very terrible! We, at least,
only change our miseries!"
"I wish," said Lorraine, after a moment's hesitation, "I wish you would
render me a service!"
"What is it?"
"If I die, as is probable, before you go from here, will you claim my
body? I have the same dread as the actress, and have laid aside the
small sum of money necessary to bury me."
"Oh, do not have such ideas!"
"Still promise me, all the same!"
"But let us hope the case will not happen!"
"Yes; but if it does happen--thanks to you, I shall not have the same
misery as the actress."
"Poor woman! After having been rich to come to such an end!"
"The actress is not the only one in this room who has been rich."
"Who else?"
"A young girl of about fifteen or so, brought here yesterday evening.
She was so weak that they were obliged to support her. The sister said
that the young lady and her mother were very reputable persons, who had
been ruined."
"And is her mother here, too?"
"No, the mother was too ill to be moved. The poor girl would not leave,
so they took advantage of her fainting to convey her. The proprietor of
a wretched lodging-house, for fear they should die in his rooms, made
the report at the police station. She is there--in the bed opposite
you."
"And she is fifteen? The age of my eldest girl!" And Jeanne Duport wept
bitterly.
"Pardon me," said La Lorraine, "if I have given you pain unconsciously
in speaking of your children! Are they, too, ill?"
"Alas! I do not know. What will become of them if I remain here for a
week?"
"And your husband?"
"As we are friends together, Lorraine, I will tell you my troubles, as
you have told me yours, and that will comfort me. My husband was an
excellent workman, but became dissipated, and forsook me and my
children, after having sold everything we possessed. I went to work;
some good souls aided me, and I began to get easy again, and was
bringing up my little family as well as I could, when my husband
returned with a vile creature, his mistress, and again stripped me of
everything; and so I had to begin all over again."
"Poor Jeanne! You could not help it."
"I ought to have separated myself from him in law,--but, as my brother
says, the law is too dear! I went to see my brother one day, and he gave
me three francs, which he had collected amongst the prisoners on telling
his tales. So I took courage, believing my husband would not return for
a very long time, as he had taken all he could from us. But I was
mistaken," added the poor creature, with a shudder; "there was my poor
Catherine still to take!"
"Your daughter?"
"You will hear--you will hear! Three days ago, as I was at work with my
children around me, my husband came in. I saw by his look that he had
been drinking. 'I have come for Catherine,' says he. I took my
daughter's arm, and I said to Duport, 'Where do you want to take her
to?' 'What's that to you? She's my daughter. Let her make up her bundle
and come along with me.' At these words my blood ran cold in my veins;
for you must know, Lorraine, that that bad woman is still with my
husband, and it makes me shudder all over to say it. But so it was; she
had long been urging him to earn something by our daughter, who is young
and pretty. 'Take away Catherine?' said I to Duport; 'Never! I know what
that wicked woman would do with her.' 'I say,' said my husband, whose
lips were white with rage, 'do not oppose me or I'll kill you!' and then
he seized my daughter by the arm, saying, 'Come along, Catherine!' The
poor child threw her arms around my neck, and burst into tears,
exclaiming, 'I will stay with mother!' When he saw this, Duport became
furious, tore my daughter from me, and hit me a blow in my stomach,
which knocked me down; and when I was on the ground--he was very drunk,
you may be sure--he trampled on me and hurt me dreadfully. My poor
children begged for mercy on their knees,--Catherine, too; and then he
said to her, swearing like a lunatic, 'If you will not come with me I'll
do for your mother!' I was spitting blood; I felt half dead, and could
not move an inch. But I cried to Catherine, 'Let him kill me first!'
'What, you won't be quiet?' said Duport, giving me another kick, which
deprived me of all consciousness; and when I returned to myself, I found
my two little boys crying bitterly."
"And your daughter?"
"Gone!" exclaimed the unhappy mother, with convulsive sobs. "Yes; gone.
My other children told me that their father had beaten them and
threatened to finish me. Then the poor girl was quite distracted and
embraced me and her brothers, weeping dreadfully; and then my husband
dragged her away. Ah, that bad woman was waiting for him on the stairs,
I know!"
"And didn't you complain to the police?"
"At first I felt only grief at Catherine's departure; but I felt soon
great pain in all my limbs,--I could not walk. Alas, what I had so long
dreaded had happened! Yes, I told my brother that one day my husband
would beat me so that I should be obliged to go to the hospital,--and
then what would become of my children? And now here I am in the
hospital, and what, indeed, will become of my children? The neighbours
went for the commissary, who came. I didn't like to denounce Duport, but
I was obliged, in consequence of my daughter; only I said that in our
quarrel about our daughter he had pushed me, that it was nothing, but I
wanted my daughter Catherine because I feared the bad woman with whom my
husband lived would be the ruin of her."
"Well, and what did the commissary say?"
"Why, that my husband had a right to take away his daughter, as we were
not separated; that it would be a misfortune if my daughter turned out
badly from evil counsels, but that they were only suppositions, after
all, and that was not sufficient for a complaint against my husband.
'You have but one way--plead in the courts, demand a separation--and
then the beatings your husband has given you, his behaviour with a vile
woman, will be in your favour, and they will force him to restore your
daughter to you; but, otherwise, he has a right to keep her with him.'
'But how can I plead when I have my children to feed?' 'What can be
done?' said the clerk; 'that's the only way!'" and poor Jeanne sobbed
bitterly, adding, "And he is right--that is the only way! And so, in
three months, my daughter may be walking the streets, whilst if I could
plead and be separated it would not happen. Alas, poor Catherine, so
gentle and so affectionate!"
"Oh, you have, indeed, a bitter sorrow; and yet I was complaining!" said
La Lorraine, drying her eyes. "And your other children?"
"Why, on their account, I did all I could to bear the pains I was
suffering, and not go to the hospital; but I could not go on. I vomited
blood three or four times a day, and a fever took away the use of my
arms and legs, and I was at last unable to work. If I am quickly cured I
may return to my children, if they are not first dead from hunger or
locked up as beggars. Who will maintain them whilst I am here?"
"Oh, it is very terrible! Have you no kind neighbours?"
"They are as poor as myself, and have five children already. It is very
hard, but they promised to do a little something for them for a week;
that is all they could do. And so, cured or not cured, I must go out in
a week."
"But your friend, Mademoiselle Rigolette?"
"Unfortunately, she is in the country, and going to be married, the
porter said. No, I must be cured in eight days; and I asked all the
doctors who spoke to me yesterday, but they laughed as they replied,
'You must ask the principal surgeon.' When will he come, Lorraine?"
"Hush! I think I hear him now. And no one is allowed to speak during his
visit," replied Lorraine, in a low voice.
The daylight had appeared during the conversation of the two women. A
bustle announced the arrival of Doctor Griffon, who entered the room
accompanied by his friend, the Comte de Saint-Remy, who took so warm an
interest in Madame de Fermont and her daughter, but was very far from
expecting to find the unfortunate young lady in the hospital. As he
entered the ward, the cold and harsh features of Doctor Griffon seemed
to expand. Casting around him a look of satisfaction and authority, he
answered the obsequious reception of the sisters by a protecting nod.
The coarse and austere countenance of the old Comte de Saint-Remy was
imprinted with the deepest sorrow. His ineffective attempts to find any
traces of Madame de Fermont, and the ignominious baseness of the
vicomte, who had preferred a life of infamy to death, overwhelmed him
with grief.
"Well," said Doctor Griffon to him, with an air of triumph, "what do you
think of my hospital?"
"Really," replied M. de Saint-Remy, "I do not know why I yielded to your
desire; nothing is more harrowing than the sight of rooms filled with
sick persons. Since I entered, my feelings have been severely
distressed."
"Bah, bah! In a quarter of an hour you will think no more of it. You,
who are a philosopher, will find here ample matter for observation; and
besides, it would have been a shame for you, one of my oldest friends,
not to have known the theatre of my glory, my labours, and seen me at
work. I take pride in my profession--is that wrong?"
"No, certainly; and after your excellent care of Fleur-de-Marie, whom
you have saved, I could refuse you nothing."
"Well, have you ascertained anything as to the fate of Madame de Fermont
and her daughter?"
"Nothing!" replied M. de Saint-Remy, with a sigh. "And my last hope is
in Madame d'Harville, who takes such deep interest in these two
unfortunates; she may find some traces of them. Madame d'Harville, I
hear, is expected daily at her house; and I have written to her on the
subject, begging her to reply as soon as possible."
During the conversation between M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon,
several groups were formed gradually around a large table in the middle
of the apartment, on which was a register in which the pupils of the
hospital (who were to be recognised by their long white aprons) came in
their turns to sign the attendance-sheet.
"You see, my dear Saint-Remy, that my staff is pretty considerable."
"It is indeed! But all these beds are occupied by women, and the
presence of so many men must inspire them with painful confusion!"
"All these fine feelings must be left at the door, my dear Alcestis.
Here we begin on the living those experiments and studies which we
complete on the dead body in the amphitheatre."
"Doctor, you are one of the best and worthiest of men, and I owe you my
life, and I recognise all your excellent qualities; but the practice and
love of your art makes you take views of certain questions which are
most revolting to me. I leave you. These are things which disgust and
pain me; and I foresee that it would be a real punishment to me to be
present at your visit. I will wait for you here at the table."
"What a strange person you are with these scruples! But I will not let
you have quite your own way. So remain here till I come for you."
"Now, then, gentlemen," said Doctor Griffon; and he began his round,
followed by his numerous auditory.
On reaching the first bed on the right hand, the curtains of which were
closed, the sister said to the doctor:
"Sir, No. 1 died at half past four o'clock this morning."
"So late? It astonishes me. Yesterday morning I would not have given her
the day through. Has her body been claimed?"
"No, sir."
"So much the better. It is a very fine one; we will not dissect it, but
I will make a man happy." Then turning to one of the pupils, "My dear
Dunoyer, you have long desired a subject; your name is down for the
first, and it is yours."
"Oh, sir, you are too good."
"I am only desirous of rewarding your zeal, my dear fellow; but mark the
subject--take possession; there are so many who covet it."
As the doctor passed onwards, the pupil, with his scalpel, incised very
delicately an F. and D. (his initials) on the arm of the defunct
actress, in order "to take possession," as the doctor termed it. And the
round continued.
"Lorraine," said Jeanne Duport, in a low voice, to her neighbour, "who
is all this crowd of people with the surgeon?"
"It is pupils and students."
"Oh, will all these young men look on whilst the doctor asks me
questions and examines me?"
"Alas, yes!"
"But it is in my chest that I am ill; will they examine me before all
these men?"
"Yes--yes--it must be so. I cried bitterly the first time, and thought
I should have died of shame. I resisted, and they threatened to send me
away, and that made me so ill. Only imagine, almost naked before
everybody! It is very painful."
"Before the doctor alone I can easily comprehend it is necessary, and
even that is a great deal to submit to; but why before all these young
men?"
"They learn and practise on us; that is why we are here,--why they admit
us into the hospital."
"Ah, I understand," said Jeanne Duport, with bitterness; "they give us
nothing for nothing. Yet still there are times when even that could not
be. Suppose my poor girl Catherine, who is only fifteen, were to come to
the hospital, would they dare with her, before so many young men,
to--Oh, no! I would rather see her die at home!"
"Oh, if she came here she must make up her mind to do as the others
do,--as you and I. But hold your tongue; if the poor young lady in front
hears you--they say she was rich, and, perhaps, has never left her
mother before,--and yet her turn comes now. Only think how confused and
distressed she will be."
"I shudder when I think of her! Poor child!"
"Hush, Jeanne! Here is the doctor!" said Lorraine.
After having quickly visited several patients who presented nothing
remarkable in their cases, the doctor at last came to Jeanne. At the
sight of this crowd coming around her bed, anxious to see and learn, the
poor creature, overcome with fear and shame, pulled the bed-clothes
tightly around her. The severe and meditative countenance of the doctor,
his penetrating glance, his eyebrows, always drawn down by his
reflective habit, his abrupt mode of speech, impatient and quick,
increased the alarm of poor Jeanne.
"A new subject!" said the doctor, as he read the placard in which was
inscribed the nature of the patient's malady, and throwing on Jeanne a
lengthened look of scrutiny. There was a profound silence amongst the
assistants, who, in imitation of the prince of science, fixed a
scrutinising glance on the patient. After an examination of several
minutes, the doctor, remarking something wrong in the yellow tint of the
patient's eyeball, approached her more closely, and, raising the lid
with his finger, examined it silently. Then several of the students,
responding to the kind of mute invitation of their professor, drew near,
and gazed at Jeanne's eye with attention. The doctor then began:
"Your name?"
"Jeanne Duport," she murmured, more and more alarmed.
"Are you married?"
"Alas, yes, sir!" with a profound sigh.
"Have you any children?"
Here, instead of replying, the poor mother gave way to a flood of tears.
"It is no use crying,--answer! Have you any children?"
"Yes, sir,--two little boys, and a girl of sixteen."
Then followed a string of questions impossible to repeat, but to which
Jeanne could only reply in stammering, and after many severe rebukes
from the doctor. The poor woman was overwhelmed with shame, compelled as
she was to reply aloud to such questions before such a numerous
auditory.
The doctor, completely absorbed by scientific feelings, did not give the
smallest heed to Jeanne's distress, and continued:
"How long have you been ill?"
"Four days, sir," replied Jeanne, drying her tears.
"Tell us how your illness first disclosed itself."
"Sir,--why,--there are so many persons here, that I dare not."
"Pooh! Where do you come from, my dear woman?" inquired the doctor,
impatiently; "would you like to have a confessional brought? Come, come,
make haste!"
"Sir, these are family matters."
"Oh, be easy, we are all family men here; a large family, too, as you
see," added the prince of science, who was in very high spirits that
day. "Come, come, let us have an end of this."
More and more alarmed, Jeanne, stammering and hesitating at each moment,
said:
"I had--a quarrel with my husband--about the children; I mean my eldest
daughter, that he wanted to take away; and I wouldn't agree, because of
a wicked woman he lived with, and who might give bad advice to my
daughter. So then, my husband, who was tipsy,--yes, sir,--for if not,
he'd never have done it,--my husband gave me a very hard push, and I
fell; and then, soon after, I began to vomit blood."
"Pooh, pooh, pooh! Your husband pushed you, and you fell; you describe
it very nicely! Why, he did more than push you; he must have struck you
in the stomach; perhaps trampled on you, or kicked you? Come,
answer,--let's have the truth."
"Oh, sir, I assure you that he was tipsy; but for that he would never
have been so wicked."
"Good or wicked, drunk or sober, it is not to the purpose, my good
woman. I am not a public officer, and only want a fact accurately
described. Now, were you not knocked down, and trampled under foot?"
"Yes!" said Jeanne, weeping; "and yet I never gave him any cause of
complaint. I worked as long as I could, and--"
"The epigastrium must be very painful. Don't you feel great heat around
that region?--uneasiness, lassitude, nausea?"
"Yes, sir. I was quite worn out when I gave up, if not, I should never
have left my children; and then, my Catherine! Oh, if you--"
"Put out your tongue," said the doctor, again interrupting the patient.
This appeared so strange to Jeanne, who thought to excite the doctor's
pity, that she did not reply immediately, but looked at him with alarm.
"Show me your tongue, which you know so well how to use," said the
doctor, with a smile; and he pushed down Jeanne's lower jaw with the end
of his finger. After having had his pupils successively, and for some
time, feel and examine the subject's tongue, in order to ascertain its
colour and dryness, Jeanne, overcoming her fear for a moment, said, in a
tremulous voice:
"Sir, I was going to say to you, my neighbours, who are as poor as
myself, have been so kind as to take care of my children for a week
only, which is a great deal; so at the end of that time I must be back
home again. So I beg of you, in God's name, to cure me as quickly as you
can, or nearly so, that I may return to work; and I have but a week
before me,--for--"
"Discoloured face,--complete state of prostration,--yet the pulse
strong, quick, and regular," said the doctor, imperturbably, and
pointing to Jeanne. "Remark her well, gentlemen: oppression, heat in the
epigastric regions. All these symptoms certainly betoken haematemesis,
probably complicated by hepatitis, caused by domestic troubles, as is
indicated by the yellow discoloration of the eyeball. The subject has
had violent blows in the regions of the epigastrium and abdomen; the
vomiting blood is the necessary consequence of some organic injury to
the viscera. On this point let me call your attention to a very curious,
remarkably curious, feature. The post-mortem appearances of those who
die of the injuries under which the subject is suffering frequently
present remarkable appearances; frequently the malady, very severe and
very dangerous, carries off the patient in a few days, and then no trace
of it is found."
Doctor Griffon then, throwing off the bed-clothes, nearly denuded poor
Jeanne. It would be repugnant to describe the struggle of the
unfortunate creature, who, in her shame, implored the doctor and his
auditory. But at the threat, "You will be turned out of the hospital, if
you do not submit to the established usages,"--a threat so terrible for
those to whom the hospital is the sole and last refuge,--Jeanne
submitted to a public scrutiny, which lasted a long time, very long, for
Doctor Griffon analysed and explained every symptom; and then the most
studious of the pupils declared their wish to unite practice with
theory, and also examine the patient. The end of this scene was that
poor Jeanne felt such extreme emotion that she fell into a nervous
crisis, for which Doctor Griffon gave an extra prescription.
The round continued, and the doctor soon reached the bed of Mlle. Claire
de Fermont, a victim, like her mother, to the cupidity of Jacques
Ferrand.
Mlle, de Fermont, dressed in a cap of the hospital, was leaning her head
languidly on the bolster of the bed. In spite of the ravages of her
malady, there might be detected on her open and sweet countenance the
traces of a beauty full of distinction. After a night of keen anguish,
the poor girl had fallen into a kind of feverish stupor, and when the
doctor and his scientific train entered the ward she was not aroused by
the noise.
"Another first subject, gentlemen," said the prince of science.
"Disease, a slow nervous fever; if the receiving surgeon is not mistaken
in the symptoms, this is a real godsend. For a long time I have desired
a slow nervous fever, for that is not an ordinary complaint amongst the
poor. These affections are usually produced after severe trouble in the
social position of the subject, and I need hardly add that the higher
the position of the patient, the more deep is the disease. It is,
moreover, a complaint the more remarkable from its peculiar
characteristics. It is traced to the very remotest antiquity, and the
writings of Hippocrates have no doubt reference to it. This fever, I
repeat, has almost always been produced from the most violent grief, and
grief is as old as the world. Yet, strange to say, before the eighteenth
century, this disease was never accurately described by any author; it
was Huxham, whom the science of medicine of the age so highly
honours,--Huxham, I say, who first defined accurately nervous fever; and
yet it is a malady of the olden time," added the doctor, jocosely. "Eh,
eh, eh! It belongs to the great, antique, and illustrious family of
_febris_, whose origin is lost in the darkness of ages. But we may be
rejoicing too soon; let us see if really we have the good fortune to
possess here a sample of this curious affection; it would be doubly
desirable, inasmuch as, for a very long time, I have been anxious to try
the effect of the internal use of phosphorus. Yes, gentlemen," continued
the doctor, hearing amongst his auditory a kind of shudder of
curiosity,--"yes, gentlemen, of phosphorus; it is a singular experiment
that I wish to try, and a bold one, and but _audaces fortuna juvat_, and
the opportunity would be excellent. We will first try if the subject
offers in all parts of the body, and particularly in the chest, that
miliary eruption, so symptomatic according to Huxham, and you will
assure yourselves, by feeling the subject, of the kind of uneven surface
which this eruption produces. But do not let us sell the skin of our
bear before we have killed it," added the prince of science, who was
decidedly in very high spirits. And he shook Mlle. de Fermont's shoulder
very gently, in order to wake her.
The young girl started and opened her large eyes, hollowed by the
malady. It is impossible to describe her amaze and alarm. Whilst a crowd
of men surrounded her bed, all fixing their eyes upon her, she felt the
doctor's hand gliding under the quilt into her bed, in order to take
her hand and feel her pulse. Mlle. de Fermont, collecting all her
strength, in a cry of anguish, exclaimed:
"Mother! Help! Mother! Mother!"
By an almost providential chance, at the moment when the cries of Mlle.
de Fermont made the old Count de Saint-Remy spring from his chair, for
he recognised the voice, the door of the apartment opened, and a young
lady, dressed in mourning, entered very hastily, accompanied by the
governor of the hospital; this lady was the Marquise d'Harville.
"I beg of you, sir," she said to him, "to lead me to Mlle. de Fermont."
"Be so kind as to follow me," he replied, respectfully; "the young lady
is in No. 17."
"Unhappy girl! Here--here!" said Madame d'Harville, drying her tears.
"Ah, this is really frightful!"
The marquise, preceded by the governor, rapidly approached the group
assembled beside the bed of Mlle. de Fermont, when they heard these
words uttered with indignation:
"I tell you it is infamous murder; you will kill her, sir!"
"But, my dear Saint-Remy, do pray hear me!"
"I repeat, sir, that your conduct is atrocious! I consider Mlle. de
Fermont as my daughter, and I forbid you going near her; I will have her
immediately removed hence."
"But, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare; I
am desirous of trying phosphorus. It is a unique occasion. Promise me,
at least, that I shall have the care of her, and take her where you
like, since you are determined to deprive us of so valuable a clinical
subject."
"If you were not a madman, you would be a monster!" replied the count.
Clemence listened to these words with increasing anguish, but the crowd
was so dense around the bed that the governor was obliged to say, in a
loud voice:
"Make way, if you please, for the Marquise d'Harville, who has come to
see No. 17."
At these words, the pupils made way with equal haste and respectful
admiration when they saw Clemence's lovely face, which was radiant with
so much emotion.
"Madame d'Harville!" exclaimed the Count de Saint-Remy, pushing the
doctor rudely aside, and going hastily towards Clemence. "Ah, it is God
who sends one of his angels here! Madame, I knew you took an interest in
these two unfortunate beings, and, more happy than me, you have found
them, whilst it was chance only that led me hither, to be present at a
scene of unparalleled barbarity. Unhappy child! See, madame; and you,
gentlemen, in the name of your sisters and daughters, have pity, I
entreat, on a girl of sixteen, and leave her alone with madame and these
good sisters; when she recovers her senses, I will have her conveyed
hence."
"Very well, let it be so; I will sign her discharge!" exclaimed the
doctor; "but I will not lose sight of her; she is a subject of mine, and
I will attend her, do what you will. I'll not risk the phosphorus, I
promise that; but I will pass my nights, if needs be, as I passed them
with you, ungrateful Saint-Remy, for this fever is as curious as yours
was; they are two sisters, who have an equal right to my interest."
"Confound the man! Why has he so much science?" said the count, knowing
that he could not confide the young girl to more able hands.
"Eh! It is simple enough," said the doctor, in a whisper. "I have a
great deal of science because I study, because I experimentalise,
because I risk and practise a great deal on my subjects; and so, old
fellow, I shall still have my slow nervous fever,--eh?"
"Yes; but is it safe to move this young girl?"
"Certainly."
"Then, for the love of heaven, disappear with your train!"
"Come, gentlemen," said the prince of science, "we shall be deprived of
a precious study; but I will make my reports on it to you." And Doctor
Griffon, with his suite, continued his round, leaving M. de Saint-Remy
and Madame d'Harville with Mlle. de Fermont.
During this scene, Mlle. de Fermont, still in a swoon, had been attended
to by Clemence and the two nuns. Saint-Remy said in a low tone to
Clemence:
"And the mother of this unhappy girl, madame?"
The marchioness replied, in a voice deeply affected:
"She has no longer a mother, sir. I learnt yesterday only, on my return,
the address of Madame de Fermont, and her dying condition; at one
o'clock in the morning I went to her with a medical man. Ah, sir, what a
fiction! It was misery in all its horror! And no hope of saving the poor
mother, whose last words were, 'My daughter!'"
"What a death! Good heaven! And she so tender, so devoted a mother,--it
is frightful!"
"I will watch her until she can be moved," said Clemence, "and, when she
can be removed, I will take her with me."
"Ah, madame, bless you for what you say and do!" said M. de Saint-Remy.
"But excuse me for not having before mentioned my name to you, I am the
Comte de Saint-Remy; Madame de Fermont's husband was my most intimate
friend. I live at Angers, and left that city from uneasiness at not
receiving any news of these two noble and excellent women; they had
until then lived in that city, and were said to be completely ruined,
which was the more terrible as until then they had lived in ease and
plenty."
"Ah, sir! you do not know all; Madame de Fermont was shamefully robbed."
"By her notary, perhaps? I had my suspicions."
"That man was a monster, sir! Alas! that was not the only crime he
committed; but fortunately," said Clemence, with excitement, as she
thought of Rodolph, "a providential genius had compelled him to do
justice, and I was enabled to close Madame de Fermont's eyes, assuring
her as to the future provision for her daughter; thus her death was
rendered less cruel."
"I understand; knowing her daughter to have your support henceforth, my
poor friend died more tranquil."
"Not only is my interest excited for ever towards Mlle. de Fermont, but
her fortune will be restored to her."
"Her fortune! The notary--"
"Has been compelled to refund the money. This man had caused the
assassination of Madame de Fermont's brother, in order to make it appear
that the unhappy man had committed suicide, after having dissipated his
sister's fortune; but he has now placed the sum in the hands of the
worthy cure of Bonne-Nouvelle, and it will be given to Mlle. de Fermont.
The infamous wretch has committed another murder equally infamous!"
"What mean you, madame?"
"But a few days since he got rid of an unfortunate young girl, whom he
had an interest in drowning, assured that her death would be attributed
to accident."
M. de Saint-Remy started, looked at Madame d'Harville with surprise, as
he recollected Fleur-de-Marie, and exclaimed:
"Ah, madame, what a singular coincidence! This young girl they sought to
drown--"
"In the Seine, near Asnieres, as I am told."
"'Tis she! 'Tis she!" cried Saint-Remy.
"Of whom do you speak, sir?"
"Of the young girl whom this monster sought to drown. Do you know her,
madame?"
"Poor dear! I love her tenderly. Ah, if you knew, sir, how lovely, how
prepossessing she was! But tell me what you mean."
"Doctor Griffon and I gave her the first assistance."
"First assistance to her! And in what way?"
"At the Isle du Ravageur, where she was saved."
"Saved! Fleur-de-Marie saved?"
"By a worthy creature, who, at the risk of her life, saved her from the
Seine. But what ails you, madame?"
"Ah, sir, I fear to believe in such good fortune; but, I pray of you,
tell me what is the appearance of this young girl?"
"Singularly beautiful!"
"Large, blue eyes,--light brown hair?"
"Yes, madame."
"And when she was drowned, there was an elderly woman with her?"
"It was only yesterday she was well enough to speak, and she is still
very weak; she said an elderly woman accompanied her."
"Praised be Heaven!" said Clemence, clasping her hands with fervour; "I
can now tell him that his protegee still lives! What joy for him who, in
his last letter, spoke to me of this poor child with such bitter
regrets! Excuse me, sir, but you know not how happy your intelligence
renders me, and will make a person who, more than myself, has loved and
protected Fleur-de-Marie. But, for mercy's sake, tell me, where is she
at this moment?"
"Near Asnieres, in the house of one of the surgeons of this hospital,
Doctor Griffon; she was taken there, and has had every attention."
"And is she out of danger?"
"Yes, madame, but only during the last two or three days, and to-day she
will be permitted to write to her protector."
"Oh, I will undertake to do that, sir; or, rather, I shall have the
pleasure of taking her to those who, believing her dead, regret her so
bitterly!"
"I can understand those regrets, madame, for it is impossible to see
Fleur-de-Marie without being charmed with her grace and sweetness. The
woman who saved her, and has since watched her night and day as she
would an infant, is a courageous and devoted person, but of a
disposition so excitable that she has been called La Louve."
"I know La Louve," said the marquise, smiling as she thought of the
pleasure she had in store for the prince. What would have been her
ecstasy, had she known she was the daughter he believed dead that she
was about to restore to Rodolph! Then, addressing the nun who had given
some spoonfuls of a draught to Mlle. de Fermont, she said, "Well,
sister, is she recovering?"
"Not yet, madame, she is so weak. Poor, young thing! One can scarcely
feel her pulse beat."
"I will wait, then, until she is sufficiently restored to be put into my
carriage; but tell me, sister, amongst these unfortunate patients, do
you know any who particularly deserve interest and pity, and to whom I
could be useful before I leave the hospital?"
"Ah, madame, Heaven has sent you here!" said the sister. "There," and
she pointed to the bed of Pique-Vinaigre's sister, "is a poor woman much
to be pitied, and very bad; she only came in when quite exhausted, and
is past all comfort, because she has been obliged to abandon her two
small children, who have no other support in the world. She said just
now to the doctor that she must go out, cured or not, in a week, because
her neighbours had promised to take care of her children for that time
only and no longer."
"Take me to her bed, I beg of you, sister," said Madame d'Harville,
rising and following the nun.
Jeanne Duport, who had scarcely recovered from the violent shock which
the investigations of Doctor Griffon had caused her, had not remarked
the entrance of Madame d'Harville; what, then, was her astonishment,
when the marquise, lifting up the curtains of her bed, and looking at
her with great pity and kindness, said:
"My good woman, do not be uneasy about your children, I will take care
of them; so only think of getting well, that you may go to them."
Poor Jeanne thought she was in a dream, she could only clasp her hands
in speechless gratitude, and gaze on her unknown benefactress.
"Once again assure yourself, my worthy woman, and have no uneasiness,"
said the marquise, pressing in her small and delicate white hands the
burning hand of Jeanne Duport; "and, if you prefer it, you shall leave
the hospital this very day and be nursed at home; everything shall be
done for you, so that you need not leave your children; and, if your
lodging is unhealthy or too small, you shall have one found that is more
convenient and suitable, so that you may be in one room and your
children in another; you shall have a good nurse, who will watch them
whilst she attends to you, and when you entirely recover, if you are out
of work, I will take care that you are provided for until work comes,
and I will also take care of your children for the future."
"Ah, what do I hear?" said Jeanne Duport, all trembling and hardly
daring to look her benefactress in the face. "Why are so many kindnesses
showered on me? It is not possible! I leave the hospital, where I have
wept and suffered so much, and not leave my children again! Have a
nurse! Why, it is a miracle!"
"It is no miracle, my good woman," said Clemence, much affected. "What I
do for you," she added, blushing slightly at the remembrance of Rodolph,
"is inspired by a generous spirit, who has taught me to sympathise with
misfortune, and it is he whom you should thank."
"Ah, madame, I shall ever bless you!" said Jeanne, weeping.
"Well, then, you see, Jeanne," said Lorraine, much affected, "there are
also amongst the rich Rigolettes and Goualeuses with good hearts."
Madame d'Harville turned with much surprise towards Lorraine when she
heard her mention the two names.
"Do you know La Goualeuse and a young workwoman called Rigolette?" she
inquired of Lorraine.
"Yes, madame; La Goualeuse--good little angel!--did for me last year,
according to her small means, what you are going to do for Jeanne. Yes,
madame, and it does me good to say and repeat it to everybody, La
Goualeuse took me from a cellar in which I had been brought to bed on
the straw, and--dear, good girl!--placed me and my child in a room where
there was a good bed and a cradle; La Goualeuse spent the money from
pure charity, for she scarcely knew me, and was poor herself. But how
good it was! Was it not, madame?" said Lorraine.
"Yes, yes; charity from the poor to the poor is great and holy!" said
Clemence, with her eyes moistened by soft tears.
"It was the same with Mademoiselle Rigolette, who, according to her
little means as a sempstress," said Lorraine, "some days ago offered her
kind services to Jeanne."
"How singular!" said Clemence to herself, more and more affected, for
each of these two names, Goualeuse and Rigolette, reminded her of a
noble action of Rodolph. "And you, my child, what can I do for you?" she
said to Lorraine; "I could wish that the names you pronounce with so
much gratitude should also bring you good fortune."
"Thank you, madame," said Lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation.
"I had a child, it is dead; I am in a decline and past all hope."
"What a gloomy idea! At your age there is always hope."
"Oh, no, madame, I saw a consumptive patient die last night. Yet as you
are so good, a great lady like you must be able to do anything."
"Tell me, what do you wish?"
"Since I have seen the actress who is dead so distressed at the idea of
being cut in pieces after her death, I have the same fear. Jeanne had
promised to claim my body, and have me buried."
"Ah, this is horrible!" said Clemence, shuddering. "Be tranquil,
although I hope the time is far distant, yet, when it comes, be assured
that your body shall rest in holy ground."
"Oh, thank you--thank you, madame!" exclaimed Lorraine. "Might I beg to
kiss your hand?"
Clemence presented her hand to the parched lips of Lorraine.
Half an hour afterwards, Madame d'Harville, who had been painfully
affected by Lorraine's condition, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, took
with her the young orphan, from whom she concealed her mother's death.
The same day, Madame d'Harville's man of business, after having obtained
favourable particulars respecting Jeanne Duport's character, hired for
her some large and airy rooms, and the same evening she was conveyed to
her new residence, where she found her children and a nurse. The same
individual was instructed to claim and inter the body of Lorraine when
she died. After having conveyed Mlle. de Fermont to her own house,
Madame d'Harville started for Asnieres with M. de Saint-Remy, in order
to go to Fleur-de-Marie, and take her to Rodolph.