“She isn’t as young as she once was,” said M. de Terremondre, who was turning over the leaves of volume xxxviii. of l’Histoire Générale des Voyages.
“By Jove, no!” answered the doctor. “You know that Giry isn’t her real name?”
“Her real name is Girou,” answered M. de Terremondre authoritatively. “I knew her mother, Clémence Girou. Fifteen years ago Pauline Giry was dark and very pretty.”
And the three of them, in the old-book corner, set to work to reckon the actress’s age. But as they were calculating from doubtful or incorrect data, they only reached contradictory, or sometimes even absurd, conclusions, and with these they were by no means satisfied.
“I am worn out,” said the doctor. “You all went to bed after the theatre. But I was called up at midnight to go to an old farmer on Duroc hill, who was suffering from strangulated hernia. Says his man to me: ‘He has brought up everything he can. He harps on one note. He is going to die.’ I have the horse put in and I spin out to Duroc hill, over yonder, right at the end of the Faubourg de Tramayes. I find my man a-bed and howling. Corpse-like face, stercoraceous vomiting. Very good! His wife says to me: ‘It’s in his inside that it takes him.’”
“She’s forty-seven, is Pauline Giry,” said M. de Terremondre.
“It’s quite possible,” said Paillot.
“At least forty-seven,” answered the doctor. “Double hernia, and dangerous it was. Very good! I proceed to reduce it by hand-pressure. Although it is only necessary to exercise a very faint pressure with the hand, after thirty minutes of this business, one’s arms and back are broken. And it was only at the end of five hours, at the tenth repetition, that I was able to effect the reduction.”
At this point in the narrative recounted by Dr. Fornerol, Paillot the bookseller went to serve some ladies who asked for some interesting books to read in the country. And the doctor, addressing himself to M. de Terremondre alone, continued:
“I was one ache. I say to my man: ‘You must keep to your bed, and, if possible, you must remain lying on your back, until the truss-maker has made a truss for you according to my directions. Lie stretched out, or look out for strangulation. And you know whether that’s nice! Without counting that one day or another it’ll carry you off. You understand?’