[CHAPTER VII]
PRISONERS OF WAR
COLONEL BARON might not confess the fact in so many words, but before he had been three days in Paris he sorely regretted his own action in taking Roy across the Channel.
When Roy was first taken ill—after ailing for a day or two—the doctor, hastily called in, at once pronounced him to be probably sickening for that fell disease which for centuries had held the world in a thraldom of terror. Not without reason. Up to the close of the eighteenth century nearly half a million of people had died in Europe every year of smallpox.
Mrs. Baron was a fond and tender mother, yet when first that dread word left the doctor's lips, even she fled in horror from the sick-room. From infancy she had been used to admiration, and she knew too well to what a mockery of the human face many a lovelier countenance than hers was reduced.
Soon, ashamed of herself, she rallied, and would have returned; but this the Colonel sternly prohibited.
The people of the hotel, in sheer dismay, insisted on Roy's instant removal. The question was—where could he go? Then it was that Ivor came to the rescue, He had had smallpox. He was not only safe, but also experienced, having nursed a friend through the complaint. He would take charge of the boy himself, allowing none other to enter the room. His steady manner and cheerful face brought comfort to everybody.
Consulting with the hotel people, he heard of a M. and Mme. de Bertrand living near, who might be willing to receive him and Roy. They and their servant had been inoculated, and were safe. Since they were members of the old lesser noblesse, and had lost heavily in Revolution times, they might be glad thus to make a little money.
The matter was speedily arranged, and Roy was conveyed thither wrapped in blankets, already much too ill to care what might be done with him. Colonel and Mrs. Baron remained at the hotel, to endure a long agony of suspense.
As days passed, it appeared that no one else had caught the disease, and Roy was found to have it mildly. It was not a case of the awful "confluent" smallpox, but of the simple "discrete" kind. There was a good deal of fever, and at times he wandered, calling for "Molly," but more often he was dull and stupefied, saying little.