Half an hour after Dr. Dubois had left the room there was a knock and Dr. Bruneau’s head appeared round the door.
“May I come in?” he said. Paul put down his half-written letter to Michèle. Dr. Bruneau entered and shut the door.
“Well, monsieur, you are satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“And you are changing to a smaller room?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that you had any financial difficulties, I thought that you drew on the purse of Croesus. Do you mind if I sit down?” He pulled up a chair. “Dr. Dubois is very pleased with your condition.”
“He told me so.”
“It is his opinion that you have nothing to worry about. Well, it is a good thing. He says you won’t have to stay here very long.”
“No more than a month or two.”
Dr. Bruneau winced.
“That is no time at all.” Then he added hastily: “Still, Dr. Dubois is the Médecin Chef—he should know.” He looked at his finger-nails. There was a long pause.
“He told me to come and see you, he thought that you needed to be reassured. I told him you were the last person alive to need reassuring, but he still insisted. So here I am.”
“It was very good of you to come.”
“A pleasure, I assure you.” There was another pause. Then: “Did you tell him about our little misunderstanding?”
“No.”
“Quite right—you showed good judgement. Even the best regulated families sometimes …” Dr. Bruneau smiled painfully. “Actually I was thinking very seriously of rescinding my decision. Anyway it must be all quite a weight off your mind.”
“Yes.”
“Or don’t you mind much either way?” The impassive tone of the inquiry was distorted by a warning tremolo.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why did you provoke the whole affair?” cried Dr. Bruneau, getting angrily to his feet. Then with an effort he reverted to his former, neutral tones. “Well, never mind, the incident is closed, the why and the wherefore no longer matter.” He swallowed loudly. “Your glass is set fair. Dr. Dubois has no doubts.” Again the painful smile. “If you have the opportunity some time, you might mention to Dr. Dubois how I used to call on you to discuss art and philosophy.”
“Certainly.”
“I would be quite grateful.”
“I will remember to do so.”
“As a matter of fact, and strictly between ourselves, Dr. Dubois seems to have the notion that you’re a very sensitive sort of plant!” Dr. Bruneau’s painful smile developed into no less painful laughter, in which Paul also joined. Dr. Bruneau raised a conspiratorial finger to his lips.
“Don’t let that get any farther—Dr. Dubois is not blessed with our sense of humour. Myself, I’ve always paid you the compliment of treating you the way I was treated when I was ill—doctor to doctor, man to man! But I’m afraid that’s not Dr. Dubois’s way. Still, he was your choice and it’s too late to do much about it. Is everything now clear, monsieur?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And you feel suitably reassured?” Dr. Bruneau winked. Paul nodded.
“Well, à bientôt, monsieur.” Dr. Bruneau left the room.
Paul resumed his letter to Michèle. He felt as if he had woken from a nightmare which had begun on the eve of Michèle’s departure and which had ended with Dr. Dubois’s return from Paris, and that by the act of waking everything relevant to the nightmare was invalidated. In a concise but detailed assessment of his condition Dr. Dubois had assured him that his pneumothorax was still effective and would continue to be so; that his sputum analysis was negative; that both the bacterial content and the volume of the pleural secretion were diminishing with each aspiration. In a word his body was responding admirably to treatment and, Dr. Dubois had added, the outcome of the treatment was not in doubt. Dr. Dubois’s combination of kindness, conviction and authority had made despair appear as irrational as previously it had appeared inevitable.
Satisfied at last that he had set Paul’s mind at rest, Dr. Dubois had inquired about the state of his finances, and, on learning that they were low, had suggested that he might care to move to a smaller room which would cost him substantially less. It was arranged that the move should take place without delay.
Paul’s new room, the last in the passage, had once served as the dressing-room to the adjoining suite: it was small; there was a wash-stand and bowl instead of a hand basin with running water; there was no balcony; it faced north. Nevertheless the price was so moderate that there could be no questioning the advisability of the move. And it was not unsympathetic; with its medium-sized window, its plain furniture and its bed right in the corner it looked more like a student’s lodging than a room in a sanatorium. Paul arranged with Mme. Anniette for his books and radio to be brought down from the châlet.
On the day that the patients were due to arrive from Holland, Emile and M. Halfont thoughtfully drawing-pinned a double row of miniature French and Dutch flags over the main entrance. Beneath this symbolic arch of allied solidarity, a few hours later, stumbled some fifty weary invalids; their improvised Arctic head-wear, the blankets wrapped about their overcoats, and their snow-encased boots made them resemble a concourse of film extras seeking auditions for the parts of the last survivors of the retreat from Moscow. Under the direction of a uniformed Dutch official they formed up into three ragged ranks; the roll was called; they were marched off in batches to their rooms, which, formerly occupied by the students, were confined to the two lower floors, and in which they were quartered in pairs.
In the evening, under the pretext of posting a letter to Michèle, Paul went down to the foyer; it had been taken over by the newcomers, who, standing or squatting in little groups, were talking and smoking and playing at cards, marbles and dominoes. There were a few with dressing-gowns; the majority were wearing overcoats or ‘wind-cheaters’ over their pyjamas. Dr. Bruneau, wearing a suit which looked as if he had purchased it several years earlier from a boys’ outfitters, was moving from one group to another, introducing himself, shaking hands, coughing because of the smoke, laughing mirthlessly and talking German.
Two days later the Universel closed its doors and its patients and personnel were absorbed, as though by transfusion, into the leuchæmic blood-stream of Les Alpes. Porters, taxi-drivers and clients bustled down the main arteries of the reviving giant like red corpuscles newly introduced; trunks and cases, fed in great quantities into its digestive system, were distributed, separated from their contents and eliminated. The operation lasted several hours and resulted in the resuscitation of the second invalid and in the extirpation of the first.
Paul found that of his former acquaintances none remained; the novelty of encountering other patients in the passages survived no more than the first few mornings; by the end of the week life at Les Alpes had become indistinguishable from what it ever had been. Once again he found himself a taciturn and unwilling participant in the communal weighings and consultations; once again the self-confident exchanges, banter and witticisms of his fellow invalids acted on his stomach like an emetic. Which, he wondered, as he looked about him, were the new Mayevskis, Glou-Glous and Marelles? He hoped that he would never find out.
His treatment went on much as before; it was prescribed by Dr. Dubois but still administered by Dr. Bruneau. The presence of so much calcified tissue made the daily injection of streptomycin progressively more difficult to effect; Dr. Bruneau inserted the needle at such a variety of angles that often Paul believed the point must emerge through his chest. To avoid the tension of awaiting indefinitely his daily summons to the Service Médical, he took to calling there of his own accord as soon as he had finished eating breakfast. If Dr. Bruneau were available, he would give Paul his injection before commencing his morning work.
One morning when Paul was awaiting Dr. Bruneau’s arrival, Sœur Miriam came into the salle d’attente and told him to return to his room. Paul inquired whether Dr. Bruneau would be sending for him before lunch; Sœur Miriam replied that he would not. Paul went away regretfully; on days such as these he might be summoned for his injection at any time up to ten o’clock at night.
Delmuth called towards the end of the morning. He was in high spirits, for his wife had decided to return to Belgium and he was now able to look forward to an unrestricted relationship with the femme-de-chambre.
“Is love,” he declared fervently. “For me is the tragedy that I not meet with her twenty years before. We are made for one another, together we make each eternally happy!” He sighed. “In life is ever so, is ever too late!” Then more cheerfully: “Is a wonderful thing, love—without it we are nothings, we do not exist, is not possible. For me life is the story of my love. Always, wherever I go, I attract a beautiful young girls. Why, I do not know. Is so!” He smiled in proud bewilderment. “One day I write my memorials—it make passionate reading!”
Whilst lunch was being served, Dr. Bruneau came into the room.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” he said formally, picking up Paul’s temperature chart. When he had examined it, he tossed it back on to the bed. “Monsieur,” he said in the laboured tones which indicated that he was selecting his words with great care. “Monsieur, we have just learned that your bacilli are far wickeder than we had anticipated.” He cleared his throat. “They are extremely wicked,” he added pleonastically.
The chasm opened at Paul’s feet.
“I refer to your pleural fluid. How shall I put it?” In his endeavour to synthesise accuracy with tact, Dr. Bruneau rose to the tip of his toes and supported himself by the pressure of his finger-tips against the bed-rail. “Your bacilli are no longer intimidated by the action of the streptomycin. It is as if”—he searched for the homely simile—“your daily injection had no other end than that of maintaining the level of their private swimming pool!”
“You mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
“That I’m streptomycin-resistant.”
“Bravo!” Dr. Bruneau smiled and his heels sunk to the ground—the benevolent quiz-master who has successfully coaxed the obtuse competitor to the prize-winning answer. Then, his voice lightened by a combination of wonder and enthusiasm: “You have developed a greater resistance to streptomycin than any case within the experience of the laboratory! It’s quite remarkable. Still, you’re not a scientist, it means little to you.” He paused and coughed. “It’s a pity, of course, but there was no way of finding out earlier—one can’t grow cultures overnight. Anyhow it reveals conclusively that your apparent progress is no more than the consequence of regular aspirations—if the exudation were allowed to re-form in any quantity your condition would revert in no time. Well, never mind—you are in good company. When a patient develops resistance to streptomycin I congratulate him and say: ‘That’s one illusion less!’ We’re down to earth, we’re on firm foundations. You’ve now got no other problems left except that of how to get well.”
“Monsieur——” said Paul, but Dr. Bruneau interrupted him with: “‘What are they going to do with me?’ That was it, wasn’t it?” he went on. “The inevitable question. I know you now, monsieur, there’s very little about you I don’t know. Well, I expect you’ve already realised that we can’t go on puncturing you indefinitely. Still, don’t worry about it, let us do the worrying, not you. In the end it’s always the doctors who have the sleepless nights. But to get you thinking on the right lines, I’ll give you a hint. Don’t expect your salvation to be measured out in spoonfuls from a bottle labelled ‘Miracle Drug—twice daily before meals,’ it won’t be that, it won’t be that at all. Think rather in terms of good, old-fashioned treatment, the sort of treatment that British generals are generally reputed to rate more highly than whole arsenals of secret weapons—cold, hard steel. And, seriously now, it’s not such bad psychology. Drench me with streptomycin and I put up my umbrella. Show me a knife and you won’t see my heels for dust!”
He appeared ready to continue indefinitely in this strain, pursuing his fantasy like a puppy its tail, turning, twisting, somersaulting, illuminating his false analogies with fresh false analogies, rendering each successive image more fanciful and inappropriate than the last, smiling, sneering, smirking and scowling, but the set of Paul’s features recalled to him the fact that with this patient it was essential to be extremely circumspect.
“Now don’t start looking depressed, and don’t, for God’s sake, go telling Dr. Dubois that I’ve been depressing you just because I’ve been telling you the truth,” he said severely. And as Paul said nothing, he added: “I would like your assurance that you will not tell Dr. Dubois that I have been depressing you.”
Paul shook his head. Dr. Bruneau stared at Paul’s face uncertainly and a little anxiously.
“Through trying to set my patients’ minds at rest I get led into saying too much, and then—trouble! Well, I’ve learnt my lesson. Now I behave more like other doctors—remotely, impersonally. I——”
Dr. Dubois came into the room and Dr. Bruneau, stopped in the middle of a period, turned scarlet, bowed and gave a false smile of welcome.
“I was just giving our patient a little necessary uplift,” he said. He nodded affectionately to Paul for corroboration.
Dr. Dubois picked up Paul’s temperature chart and examined it. Dr. Bruneau attempted to draw Dr. Dubois’s attention to the declining curve of the temperature graph.
“You see how his condition has improved despite his resistance to streptomycin.”
Dr. Dubois closed the chart so sharply that Dr. Bruneau had barely time to withdraw his finger.
“One is never wholly resistant to streptomycin. The injections have not been wasted,” he explained to Paul. Dr. Bruneau listened, smiled, nodded agreement. “Nevertheless, to terminate your cure we will substitute a liquid form of P.A.S. for streptomycin and in a very short time you will see what satisfactory results it will produce.” And, turning to Dr. Bruneau, Dr. Dubois added: “Carry on as at present—daily inter-pleural injections and weekly aspirations. A month from now I expect to see a very substantial change for the better.”