“Her illness dates but from an hour or two ago.”
“Ah, then she will get better, most honourable English Mister,” is the reply. And then, whilst I am explaining matters, the doctor’s yellow fingers, with their wrinkled, dried-parchment skin, are busy compounding something which smells abominably, and in the efficacy of which I feel I have no faith, notwithstanding his reiterated assurance that “the most honourable madame” will speedily recover.
When he has finished mixing the medicine in the little jar-like cup Oka’s wife has brought him, he examines his patient very carefully with a pair of spectacles thrust up on his forehead, holding Mousmé’s hand and counting the pulse-beats, lifting her eyelids and staring into her unseeing eyes, talking all the while in the high-pitched, squeaky tone which reminds me of the old man who sits at the corner of Nisson Street and writes the illiterate mousmés’ love-letters, putting in all sorts of dreadful things in response to the usual, “You know what to say,” of his unimaginative clients.
When Dr. Han Sen has finished the examination, and has listened with a stethoscope of native manufacture to the beating of Mousmé’s heart, to the bird-like fluttering of which I am so used in the wakeful stillness of the night, he rises to go.
Shall he come to see the most honourable lady to-morrow?
A vague idea formulates itself as I look into his unintelligent, vacuous face.
“No, I will send if I want your services,” I hastily explain.
“No?” There is a look of almost professional regret on the wizened face. Do I know my most honourable madame is ill, very ill?
“Yes! I know. I will send if I require the most honourable Dr. Han Sen.”