‘I do not know,’ he repeated; ‘but I suspect that the boy has had a blow, and that the skull has been fractured, not badly, but a little, and that the skull presses on the brain. I am no surgeon; I leave that to those who are more skilful in that branch of our profession than I am. But by your leave, Monsieur the Vicomte, I will return to-morrow with my son; he, as you know, has just returned from work in the hospitals of Vienna and Paris. He has had the experience. He shall tell us what he thinks.’
So next morning Dr Croite brought his tall, grave son with him to the château, and together they made a careful examination of the unconscious child.
‘It is as my father says, monsieur,’ said Dr Jules gravely, when the patient had been left in Suzette’s hands, and all four gentlemen had assembled downstairs in the Vicomte’s private room. ‘The boy has had an injury to his head, inflicted by some one, I should say, rather than by a fall. It must have occurred within the last six months, the condition of the wound tells me that, and there is something—a tiny splinter of bone mayhap—which presses on the brain. Had this been all, I would have operated at once, and removed the cause of the pressure, whatever it may be. Such operations are dangerous, but in a large hospital they are done every day. But in the boys present condition I dare not attempt it; it would mean certain failure. If with careful nursing you can subdue the fever, and maintain his strength, which I very much doubt, for he is very weak, poor little one! then in three weeks or a month it might be attempted.’
‘If Monsieur the Vicomte desires it, I can have him removed to the little hospital at Dinard,’ broke in the old doctor. ‘Such nursing as this must be puts a household to great inconvenience, and the good Sisters at the hospital are very kind.’
‘The boy is very weak,’ remarked his son suggestively; ‘he has suffered great hardships.’
‘Eh, what?’ said the Vicomte, suddenly recognising the drift of the conversation. ‘But he cannot be removed from here. Old Suzette is a splendid nurse. She nursed me through all my childhood’s ailments; and these were not few, as you, Monsieur Croite, know. And if there has to be any operation, Monsieur Jules, you must just bring one of the good Sisters up from the hospital to help you. It shall never be said that Arnauld de Choisigny turned any sick thing, even if it be only a poor wandering child, from his house.’
‘I was not suggesting that, monsieur,’ said Dr Jules humbly; ‘but the case is very critical. The child may die, to put it plainly, and it will cause you a great deal of trouble. He must be watched night and day if he has to have a chance.’
‘I will watch him,’ said Mr Maxwell, ‘and the Vicomte and old Suzette will help me. If, as I suspect,’ he went on, with flashing eyes, ‘the child is really English, then there has been grave wickedness done somewhere; but, please God, we will pull him through and put it right.’
Faithfully did the three Good Samaritans into whose hands Pierre had fallen carry out their self-imposed task.
To Mr Maxwell, whose life had been one long fight against sin, with its accompaniments disease and death, it was simply a piece of the day’s work, a duty that had fallen to his hands, an opportunity for service; and had it not been for the Vicomte, who insisted that he should go out for a daily walk, and have his proper hours for sleep, he would have spent every minute in the sick-room, watching beside the unconscious boy, as he had often watched beside the bed of some little street arab in some wretched den in the slums of his city parish.