Apathy, if complete, is not devoid of compensations. In the days which followed the test Paul neither worked nor read; for hours he lay without talking and without movement, always on the border of sleep, often crossing it. He had not sufficient interest even to speculate on the result of the test, still less to seek exact information about it from any of the visiting doctors. And if Dr. Vernet had come to tell him that it had been decided to saw him in half that very evening, he would have received the news with neither surprise nor consternation.
But when nothing happened, and no information of any sort was volunteered, and the length and dreariness of the days had driven him once more back to his books, the reversion to his earlier routine prompted a relapse into the state of malaise which had accompanied it.
To his dismay he found himself half listening for the ringing of the telephone in the passage; nor, when once it had rung, could he continue his reading until the sound of Sœur Jeanne’s footsteps disappearing down the passage indicated that it represented no new summons to the Service Médical. If, after answering the telephone, Sœur Jeanne should direct her steps towards his room, his heart would beat more quickly and his apprehension mount until she had safely passed the door.
One morning Sœur Jeanne entered with the miniature X-ray prints which had been made at the conclusion of the test, and which she now placed in the folder of Paul’s temperature chart. Paul continued with his reading, ostensibly taking not the slightest notice of what she was doing; but the moment she had left the room he seized his chart and extracted the prints. At a glance he recognised as his own the heavy skeletal outline, the solid osseous casing, the deep thorax with its wide inter-costal spaces. But the bronchi, rendered opaque by their content of iodine and oil, sprouted like gigantic tentacular growths. What fresh horror now lay revealed?
Cursing his lack of knowledge of anatomy, he scrutinised each detail of the little prints, seeking by the intensity of his examination to penetrate their mystery. At last, rationally accepting his inability to make any valid interpretation, he replaced the prints in the folder of his chart.
But a few minutes later they were again in his hands, and he was holding them up to the light, comparing them with the original X-ray taken on his entry to Les Alpes, seeking to explain to himself the implication of each secretive and subtle shadow. Oh why, he wondered with exasperation, had he not studied medicine? How could he have been so blind as to devote his time to a subject so utterly without application to his condition?
He took care not to show the prints to any of his friends, and if Kubahskoi happened to be present at a moment when he felt impelled to re-examine them, he concealed his activities behind the folds of his duvet.
But by the next day they already seemed more remote, and a few days after that it was as though they related to a much earlier condition, and he could look at them and say to himself: ‘Heavens, I must have been in a poor state when these were taken.’ Then familiarity effaced the last traces of novelty, and he left them undisturbed and unconsulted in the folder to which they had first been consigned.
Besides, there were other current distractions; at the moment everyone’s attention was focused on what later became known as the first food incident.
It had been discovered that two separate cuisines were served in the sanatorium, one for the private patients and the other for the students. This of itself would not have provoked complaint if the latter diet had been adequate and of reasonable quality. But despite the assurance of M. Halfont and Dr. Vernet it had not improved; indeed there were signs that it was deteriorating.
And now, just when criticism of the food had become general, there was served a supper consisting of a single debatable and grisly sausage, a few lettuce leaves which, tired some days previously, were now in the last stages of exhaustion, and—unprovoked libel on an undistinguished city—a helping of pommes lyonnaises (beneath the fat-smeared surfaces of which it could be clearly seen that they were rotten.)
There was a murmur of indignation in the salle à manger as each student made this discovery and commented on it to his neighbour; then abruptly there was silence. To a burst of applause John Cotterell got to his feet and, taking hold of one of the platters of offending potatoes, marched with it across the dining-hall towards the exit. Instantly a representative of each of the other nationalities also seized a platter and joined up behind him in single file.
John Cotterell led the way down the corridor to M. Halfont’s bureau, but, seeing through the glass panels that it was empty, he changed direction and made for the kitchens. There, one after the other, he and his party slammed down the dishes of potatoes before an angry and demonstrative chef.
Then a spontaneous meeting of all the students took place in one of the public rooms. Speeches were made in French, German and English, each speaker affirming that the time had now come for a corporate organisation and corporate action. A representative committee should be elected to make direct representations to Dr. Vernet or even, if necessary, to the headquarters of the I.S.O.
And, the moment being propitious, each national group selected a member to serve on this committee, after which the committee, voting among themselves, appointed a president and a vice-president. To this first office was elected Grominoff, a French student of Russian origin who had fought with the Resistance Movement and been imprisoned in a German concentration camp. The vice-presidency fell to John Cotterell.
Paul had his own food problems. For over ten years he had eaten neither fish nor meat. (Initially he had been unable to reconcile himself to the slaughter-house. Later—when it had seemed to him that every principle was arbitrary—flesh-eating as such had become repugnant). In the Army his diet had frequently been deficient; it seemed that it would not be better in a French sanatorium. Fresh vegetables were rarely served; a diffident request for a vegetarian diet had resulted in the substitution of a piece of cheese (always of the same indeterminate brand) for meat. For some weeks now he had received a twice-daily serving of cheese, potatoes and gravy.
But the nature of his diet was no more than an irritant. Far more significant and destructive was the trend of his mental processes. When he woke in the morning, racked by coughing and the restriction of his breathing, he would think: ‘Let anything happen to change this.’ But as his physical state grew easier as the day progressed, he became obsessed by the prospect of treatment and by the fear that he would reveal his fear in the face of pain. Then this mood would be succeeded by another: there would be periods of stoicism, periods of indifference, periods of contempt for himself, for the doctors and for the entire medical machine. Often, the cycle completed, he would fall into a feverish and hypnotic slumber, and when he became conscious, his first horrified reaction would again be: ‘Let anything happen to change this.’
And still he based all his days on the hope of indefinite procrastination, measuring them out, anticipating the danger periods when it was most likely that he would be summoned to the Service Médical, counting the hours until the evening, when he esteemed himself to be safe. And when the evening arrived, he would wonder dismally why he had awaited it with such impatience, for—the sense of immediacy momentarily suspended—it allowed him to reinforce his natural apprehension over the following day with all the potentiality of his destructive imagination.
The week-ends loomed before him like the shores of friendly islands, for the Service Médical shut its doors from midday Saturday until Monday morning. This period of respite had always the same prelude.
Each Saturday morning the three doctors made a tour of every room in the sanatorium. It had about it the precision of a military inspection. The floor sister would throw open the door and announce: “Le Médecin Chef.” Dr. Vernet would then march in, followed by Dr. Bruneau and Dr. Florent.
The temperature chart of each patient was laid in readiness at the bottom of his bed; Dr. Vernet would seize it, assess it, toss it back. A question, a few rapid and indistinguishable remarks between Dr. Vernet and Dr. Bruneau, and then, with a curt “Bonjour, monsieur,” the défilé would march out, and its progress could be assessed by the sound of the opening and closing of doors as it continued rapidly from room to room along the passage.
It was just such a Saturday morning. The routine visit was safely over; Paul, congratulating himself at the prospect of another respite, was settling down to a book which all morning had lain unopened by his side. Then the telephone rang, he caught the phrase, “Oui, tout de suite,” and after that the sound of rapid footsteps coming down the passage. He glanced incredulously at his watch. Half-past twelve on Saturday morning! He felt the moral indignation with which a civilian, after the sounding of the ‘All clear’, hears the unmistakable drone of enemy engines.
The footsteps stopped, his doors were thrown open, and in came Sœur Jeanne, crying: “Service Médical, vite, vite!”
She chided him for his slowness as he tried to pull on a pair of heavy socks, bustled him into his ancient and shabby dressing-gown, and preceded him from the room. Down the passage, dressing-gown billowing, cords dragging along the floor, as he tried to keep pace with her. Then frustration at the lift shaft. Sœur Jeanne pressed the button, rattled the outer handle, but the lift would not come; like a gilded pantomime coach wedged in the mechanism which should have raised it to the stage, it lay two floors below, golden light streaming tantalisingly from its fretted roof. “Ascenseur! Ascenseur!” cried Sœur Jeanne, shaking the lift-shaft door. There was the sound of gates being slammed; with a mechanical groan the garish box tumbled upwards, shuddered momentarily and menacingly at the floor where Sœur Jeanne and Paul were standing, then soared up to the roof. “Nom de Dieu, we walk,” cried Sœur Jeanne, motioning Paul to the staircase.
In the narrow passage of the Service Médical the three doctors were awaiting Paul’s arrival. Dr. Vernet directed him through the door marked ‘Rayons’, and ordered him to remove his dressing-gown and pyjama jacket. He then screened him, at the same time making comments in a low voice to his assistants, who were grouped about the X-ray cabinet. Next, turning off the controls and illuminating the dark-tinted bulb, he told Paul to climb out of the cabinet. In a very even tone of voice, he said: “Monsieur, I am going to try to create a pneumothorax. If this can be done there will be no more danger.”
Dr. Bruneau opened an inter-communicating door, and Paul passed into a small room furnished with a chaise longue, a table and a few wooden chairs. Sœur Miriam was standing in the corner, holding Paul’s temperature chart; she did not look up as he entered.
“You will take off your dressing-gown and your pyjama jacket and you will extend yourself, Monsieur Davenant,” said Dr. Vernet. In his studied and precise English even the mistakes sounded authoritative.
Paul removed his dressing-gown and laid it over the back of a chair, then started to unbutton his pyjama jacket. Under this, as an added protection against the cold, he was wearing a thin vest; he pulled it over his head, feeling self-conscious about the tufts of hair beneath his armpits and on his chest. Then, untying the cord of his pyjama trousers, he readjusted it, pulled it tight and retied the knot. Sœur Miriam laid an elongated and narrow bolster across the top of the chaise longue.
“We are waiting, monsieur,” said Dr. Bruneau.
Paul stepped out of his slippers, climbed on to the chaise longue and, reclining at full length, laid his head on the narrow bolster. Dr. Vernet smiled momentarily, and, pulling the bolster from under Paul’s head, placed it under his shoulder-blades. Then he instructed him to turn over on his right side, and to raise his left hand in such a way as to bare the whole of his left side. Dr. Bruneau readjusted the bolster in order that Paul’s ribs should be elevated into greater prominence, whilst Dr. Vernet extended a forefinger in the area of the fourth and fifth rib and began to feel for an inter-costal space.
Dr. Florent raised on to the table an elaborate air-pump. Two external glass tubes, graduated their whole length, contained equal levels of liquid: a length of tubing protruded from each side of the apparatus: one terminated in a rubber bulb. At the same time Sœur Miriam offered Dr. Vernet a lidless metal box. Dr. Vernet’s hand hovered above it as he scrutinised the contents—it was as though he were seeking to distinguish one brand of cigarette from another. Then, the choice made, his finger-tips descended, he abstracted a very slim metal tube about four inches long, and by pulling at one end revealed it to be a miniature canulla-and-trochar—a hollow needle containing a removable solid needle.
Dr. Bruneau took a matchstick, about the end of which was a twist of cotton-wool, dipped it in iodine and coated an area three inches square just below Paul’s armpit. Dr. Vernet smeared his own forefinger with iodine, and sought again the space which he had located a minute earlier.
Then he suspended the double needle above it. “You will feel two distinct stabs. The first will be as the needle penetrates the surface of the skin, the second as it reaches your pleura.” He eased the needle through the epidermis and it sank rapidly, was momentarily obstructed by the surface of the pleura, then pierced it and sank deeper still. Paul lay rigid, not daring to breathe lest the needle penetrate his lung. Suddenly Dr. Vernet extracted the needle. Coating his finger with more iodine, he again felt for the spaces between Paul’s ribs. “Good, we try once more,” he said at last, re-plunging the needle into Paul at a spot slightly above the place where it had first entered. It sank swiftly; Paul gasped as it passed through his pleura. Then Dr. Vernet pulled out the trochar or inner needle, leaving the canulla embedded between his ribs. To the end of the canulla he affixed one of the rubber tubes from the apparatus at his side, and then took the rubber bulb attached to the other and started to squeeze. The levels of liquid in the glass containers trembled; air began to be pumped between Paul’s chest wall and the surface of his damaged lung.
“Breathe!” commanded Dr. Vernet. Hesitantly Paul took a breath. “Again, much more deeply.” Fearing that his lung must be punctured, he nevertheless complied. The levels of the liquids fluctuated.
“Good. Four hundred c.c. of air. Pressures: minus five; minus four,” called out Dr. Vernet. Repeating this information, Sœur Miriam wrote it in red on Paul’s temperature chart. Then Dr. Vernet disconnected the rubber tube, replaced the trochar in the canulla and pulled the reassembled needle from between Paul’s ribs. A small bead of blood formed over the mark of the puncture; Sœur Miriam dabbed it with an iodine-soaked swab.
With bent and contracted shoulders, Paul shuffled his way back into the X-ray cabinet. Dr. Vernet flicked on the controls. “Pas mal,” he cried in an agreeably surprised tone of voice. Sœur Jeanne helped Paul out of the cabinet and Dr. Bruneau and Dr. Florent stood to one side as Dr. Vernet strode out of the room. Then the two assistants followed, but Dr. Florent, who was, as usual, last, turned round before leaving and whispered encouragingly to Paul: “La guérison commence.”
Back in bed, Paul lay stunned with relief and a sense of anti-climax. Was it just for this that he had passed weeks in a state of dismayed anticipation? Liberated from the government of his imagination, he grasped the extent to which he had been its dupe. “Never again,” he said to himself, “never again will I let it subjugate me in such a shameful way.”
The discomfort which he felt in his chest was very welcome; it reassured him that something had really happened. Sœur Jeanne came to see him every few minutes, Kubahskoi was infinitely solicitous and attentive. Within the next three hours each of the doctors had called on him. Towards the end of the afternoon, announcing “Some visitors for you,” Sœur Jeanne admitted the whole of the British colony.
They were all smiling mysteriously, self-consciously. One after another each took hold of Paul’s temperature chart and scrutinised it as though it were a concert programme.
“Four hundred cubic centimetres of air,” they commented in hushed voices. And David Bean, who was all astonished satisfaction, drew everyone’s attention to what he termed the negative pressures. “For,” said he, “the existence of negative pressures shows clearly that there must be few, if any, adhesions, an almost unbelievable stroke of luck for anyone whose lung is in as bad a condition as Paul’s.”
“David, it almost sounds as if you were on my side,” murmured Paul.
Encouraged by the general air of approbation, David Bean continued. He had not, he claimed, anticipated that the induction of a pneumothorax would prove possible, and he had thought that even if Dr. Vernet succeeded in finding a space into which some air could be introduced, the existence of multiple adhesions would restrict the induction to a minimal and inefficacious amount. But four hundred c.c.s, and with negative pressures! “Which just goes to show …” commented William Davis.
At nine o’clock Paul took his temperature, and as he did not feel feverish, he was surprised to see that it had risen to 37.7°. An hour later Kubahskoi extinguished the light, but Paul lay on his side looking out through the window at the moonlit mountains; he felt too excited to sleep. Running ceaselessly through his brain was the phrase: “La guérison commence.”
“La guérison commence …” It was as though a veil had been lifted and he could see clearly for the first time. Of what account was his calculated indifference as to whether or not he recovered, now that recovery was imminent?
Projects, hopes and resolutions jostled in his brain. He became overwhelmingly aware of the value, the almost religious significance, of the illness which had brought him so low, but from which, phœnix-like, he would arise renewed. The world of prospective recovery was bathed in golden light; how could he, who had been so ill, and who in the depths had learned that life was precious, ever again be subject to accidie or despair? His affirmation had all the irrational conviction which hitherto had characterised his pessimism.
As the hours passed, and the clocks in the village sounded midnight, one, then two o’clock, and sleep receded before him like the horizon before a swimmer, his thoughts became progressively less coherent. He was not always certain of his location or circumstances, and could only substitute fresh fantasies of time and place for those which his intelligence managed to reject. Sometimes a sudden access of pain in his chest would restore him to momentary lucidity, and he would reflect with dismay on what his state must be the following day as a consequence of so troubled a night.
He fell into a heavy sleep just before the dawn and awoke covered with sweat on the arrival of the garçon with the breakfast tray. He took his temperature; it registered a little less than the previous evening. Kubahskoi advised him to try and eat some breakfast, but he felt disinclined to take more than the coffee. Then, getting out of bed, he stripped completely before the hand-basin and washed himself all over.
Sœur Jeanne came to inquire about his morning temperature, and she returned about half an hour later with Dr. Vernet, whose manner was formal and uncommunicative. From time to time one or other of the British students would come to ask how he was feeling; the taciturn William Davis confined himself to inserting his hand round the door, two fingers extended in an emphatic V-sign.
In the afternoon his head began to ache. He closed his eyes against the bright mountain light which streamed unchecked through the high, uncurtained windows, but his eyelids, like coated filters, merely converted his vision into a uniform expanse of dazzling scarlet. Rolling up a handkerchief into a bandage, he placed it over his eyes, and lay motionless on his back for the remainder of the afternoon. By six o’clock his temperature had risen to 38°.
Throughout the day he had been sweating, but when he got up to wash, he found that he had difficulty in standing at the washbasin. ‘Heavens,’ he thought, ‘I shall be glad when it’s tomorrow and I feel better.’
Sœur Jeanne gave him a sleeping pill for the night. The next morning he awoke feeling slightly drugged, but completely well. He placed his thermometer under his tongue and confidently awaited the result—without a doubt it would be normal. But it showed—he stared incredulously at the glass tube, sitting up with his back to the light to make more sure—yes, it showed 38°. Then he smiled as he suddenly understood what had happened; he was looking at the temperature recorded the previous evening, he had obviously forgotten to shake down his thermometer after taking it. Now shaking it down with great care, he placed it for a second time under his tongue. Five minutes later the mercury had risen to 38°.
When he got out of bed to wash, he felt unsteady and very sick. His breakfast arrived and he left it untasted; his head started once more to ache; his body burned. In the afternoon the light forced him to re-bandage his eyes, and Kubahskoi placed a basin of water at his side in order that he might soak a succession of handkerchiefs and apply them to his forehead in the form of cold compresses.
Each of the doctors visited him during the day; of each he demanded: “Is this usual?” and “How long will this last?” Each replied in a way characteristic of his temperament.
Said Dr. Vernet: “Everything depends. Your temperature will surely come down ….” Said Dr. Bruneau: “If I could foresee the future I would select the winning ticket in the Loterie Nationale.” Said Dr. Florent: “Everything is going very well. In no time at all you’ll feel quite yourself again.”
His headache became less acute towards the evening, but his temperature reached 39°. John Cotterell and William Davis filled a basin with water and helped him to wash in bed. That night his sleeping pills had no effect; he coughed continually and violently; his body felt so tender that there was no position in which he could lie for more than a few minutes at a time. Kubahskoi’s night was inevitably little less disturbed than his own.
The next morning the need for evacuation drove him to stagger from his bed to the lavatory which lay at the bottom of the corridor. But when he got there he found that it was in use; the shape of the seated occupant was plainly visible through the glazed glass panels in the door. In despair he seized the handle and rattled it; then with a slight moan he turned back down the passage.
Suddenly feeling that he could get no farther, he made for the wall and, supporting himself against it, stood with one hand clasped over his eyes. At that moment William Davis came into the passage and, seeing that Paul was swaying, grasped his arm and guided him to his room. Back in his bed, Paul closed his eyes; across the interior of his eyelids shapes and colours were gliding like sparks above a wood bonfire.
The door opened and in came John Cotterell; William Davis beckoned him into a corner of the room, and they whispered together. Then William Davis went out, and returned a few minutes later with the only wheel-chair belonging to the sanatorium. John Cotterell and Kubahskoi helped Paul into it, and William Davis propelled him down the passage. Sœur Jeanne, engaged in sorting and rearranging the contents of her medical cupboard, gaped at him as he passed.
The inhibitions of an inhibited upbringing die hard; as other students walked up and down the passage or glanced at him with curiosity, Paul, despite his condition, stared at the ground and wished that William Davis had not stationed him so obviously outside the door of the lavatory.
When, a little later, William Davis wheeled Paul back to his room, John Cotterell and Kubahskoi had just finished making his bed. They helped him out of his dressing-gown; William Davis filled a bowl with hot water, and as Paul only fumbled with soap and flannel, the former took them both and washed him rapidly and efficiently.
Towards the middle of the morning Dr. Vernet called, in company with his assistants. Paul pulled away the rolled-up handkerchief from his eyes; his face was tense with pain.
“You feel no better?”
“I can’t lie still. Wherever my body touches the mattress it feels as if it were on fire.”
“All fires extinguish themselves at the last.”
“But often only when everything’s been burnt.”
Dr. Vernet shrugged his shoulders: “Tomorrow I will screen you,” he said.
Paul’s lunch came and was returned untouched; even to a hungry man in excellent health it would have appeared repellent. John Cotterell, who was in the room when it arrived, went to see Dr. Vernet to ask whether Paul could be given a special diet. Dr. Vernet agreed and told him to order from Sœur Jeanne anything he thought that Paul might eat. John Cotterell then went to find Sœur Jeanne and asked her to order a light and simple meal to be served to Paul that evening.
During the afternoon Paul’s condition deteriorated; his eyes felt as if they had been scalded, his body as if it had been skinned. Forced by exhaustion to lie in the same position until he could bear it no longer, he would then twist himself from one side of the bed to the other. At six o’clock his temperature had reached 39.7°.
The supper tray arrived an hour later. John Cotterell, who intended to force Paul to take a little nourishment, was waiting for it. But when he lifted the lid of the réchaud, he saw that it contained a blackened meat-ball and greasy potatoes. Angrily he went to the kitchen, where he was told that although a special order had been received, it could only be executed if signed by Dr. Vernet. John then went in search of Dr. Vernet, but it was late, and he was nowhere to be found.
A heavy dose of sodium amitol. Paul fell asleep, but woke again before midnight and coughed uninterruptedly until the dawn. In the morning his temperature stood at 39°; it was apparent that his physical reserves were at an end. William Davis gave him the most perfunctory of washes, Kubahskoi and John MacAllister arranged his bed without his leaving it.
John Cotterell obtained the menu sheet, duly signed by Dr. Vernet, and waited in Paul’s room for the arrival of the lunch. It came; it was the same as that being served to the rest of the students. Trembling with rage, barely able to speak, John Cotterell went to find M. Halfont. M. Halfont was in his bureau; he inquired sympathetically about Paul’s condition, he expressed deep regret about the menu: “Vous voyez, Monsieur Cotterell, one must always do everything oneself. This evening I engage myself to speak to the chef for Monsieur Davenant’s régime.”
In the afternoon the students carried Paul bodily to the wheel-chair, and William Davis pushed him to the Service Médical. Dr. Vernet gave him a quick screening and then directed that he should return immediately to his room. Back in bed his state became semi-comatic.
Dr. Vernet came to visit him in the evening and confirmed by the gravity of his expression that the moment of crisis had been reached. Asked whether there was anything which might ease his condition, Paul requested that a duvet be inserted between his body and the mattress. Dr. Vernet agreed, but when, afterwards, John Cotterell asked Sœur Jeanne to procure a duvet, she said that it was not possible—the sanatorium was full and every duvet was in use.
Paul’s temperature now stood at 41° and he seemed to boil in the secretion of his pores. His evening meal arrived—the ingredients were unchanged. Without hesitation John Cotterell went to Dr. Vernet’s private apartment. “There is no error—this is deliberate,” he cried furiously. Dr. Vernet telephoned to the kitchens and to M. Halfont. There was no reply from either.
“Tomorrow,” said Dr. Vernet, laying a calming hand on John Cotterell’s shoulder, “tomorrow I shall send Dr. Florent to Monsieur Davenant; in future he will be personally responsible for the order.”
When John Cotterell returned to Paul’s room, he found that the other students had assembled there. Paul was semi-delirious. For a few minutes he would lie still, then in a sort of spasm he would arch his back or raise his body on his hands in a desperate attempt to obtain relief from the pressure of the mattress. Repeatedly he renewed his request for a duvet.
But a duvet was not to be obtained. John MacAllister had taken the matter up with Sœur Jeanne but she had turned on him sharply: “Now you make me angry with all this talk of duvets. You are as mad as he is if you think a duvet would do any good.”
John Cotterell remained in Paul’s room after all the other students had left. He asked whether there was anyone with whom Paul wished to get into touch. Paul shook his head, his eyes tightly closed.
“Could you drink an egg beaten up in milk?”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Or just milk alone?”
“No. John …”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What?”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise.”
“Are you sure no one’s listening.”
“Of course no one’s listening.”
“Well, it’s this.” Paul raised himself slightly on his pillow. “I’ve just learned in strict confidence that we’re all curable.” He gave a sort of laugh. Then he retched and turned over on his side. John Cotterell watched him helplessly.
The door opened. In came John MacAllister. He was carrying a duvet from his own bed.
“Come on,” he said grimly.
With John Cotterell’s aid he inserted it under Paul’s body.
Paul stretched himself. The feather-filled duvet moulded itself to the shape of his body; by allowing an equal distribution of his weight it relieved those parts of his limbs which, hitherto supporting him, had become most painful through contact with the mattress. Experimentally he turned on his side; the anticipated reflex of pain did not come. He closed his eyes, stretched himself again. By lying very still it was almost as if … it was almost as if one might … John MacAllister and John Cotterell left the room; Paul had fallen asleep.
The next morning Sœur Jeanne noticed that a duvet was missing from John MacAllister’s bed. She admonished him angrily, and he—which was rare for him—lost his temper. Then the gouvernante of the sanatorium produced from somewhere an ancient duvet, which was substituted for the one on which Paul had passed his night.
Paul’s temperature was lower than it had been for several days. Dr. Florent, who had come to take his order for lunch and dinner, could hardly believe it. “Mais c’est épatant,” he kept on repeating.
Although his body was much easier, his headache developed during the morning with no less intensity than on the previous day. At half past twelve his luncheon tray arrived: the réchaud contained a sausage and some oily potatoes. John Cotterell led Dr. Florent to Paul’s bedside. “But I don’t understand,” declared Dr. Florent.
“I’m going to telephone the British Consul. Paul must be taken away,” said John Cotterell.
“But why?” demanded Dr. Florent, turning red.
“Because he’s eaten nothing for a week and if he doesn’t eat soon he will die.”
Dr. Florent pleaded with John Cotterell to take no action before the evening; he would speak to Dr. Vernet, he would speak to M. Halfont, he would speak to the chef. If necessary he would go into the kitchen, take off his jacket and cook the meal himself …
And that evening there was a change; the floor waiter brought a tray on which was a jug of milk, a plate of noodles and a dish of apple purée.
Paul again slept for most of the night and the next day Dr. Vernet took advantage of his more rested condition to screen him and to make another injection of air between his lung and his chest wall. This provoked no reaction.
And with each succeeding day the improvement was maintained, and at last even the headaches—the most redoubtable of his symptoms—diminished. He remained very weak but in no discomfort. Dr. Florent called each morning to arrange his menu for the day; John Cotterell and William Davis continued to look after him with the devotion which each had shown from the outset of his fever.