"École Pratique,—that's right," said Jean.
Hardened sinner that he was, the old Paris coachman crossed himself and, as he entered the uncanny neighborhood, felt around for the sacred amulet that every good Frenchman wears next to the skin.
"I must get some instruments there before taking this lady home," Jean added.
The Rue Antoine Dubois is a short street connecting the Rue et Place de l'École de Médecine with the Rue de Monsieur le Prince. One side of it is formed by the gloomy wall of the École Pratique, where more "subjects" are disposed of annually than in any other dozen similar institutions in the world; the other by various medical shops and libraries, over which are "clubs," "laboratories," "cliniques," and student lodgings. At the Rue de Monsieur le Prince the street ends in a great flight of steps. It therefore forms an impasse, or a pocket for carriages, and is little used. It was now deserted.
The coachman drew up before a dark court entrance, a sickly light shining upon him through the surgical appliances, articulated skeletons, skulls, and other professional exhibits of the nearest window.
"Let us see; I'll take her up-stairs and make a more careful examination."
"You—you're a doctor, monsieur?"
"Yes,—there!" He gave the man a five-franc piece. "No,—never mind the change."
"Merci, monsieur!"
"Better wait—till I see how she is, you know."