The doctor bowed respectfully to Hélène. Mother Fétu had ceased whining on his entrance, but kept up a sibilant wheeze, like that of a child in pain. She had understood at once that the doctor and her benefactress were known to one another; and her eyes never left them, but travelled from one to the other, while her wrinkled face showed that her mind was covertly working. The doctor put some questions to her, and sounded her right side; then, turning to Hélène, who had just sat down, he said:
“She is suffering from hepatic colic. She will be on her feet again in a few days.”
And, tearing from his memorandum book a leaf on which he had written some lines, he added, addressing Mother Fétu:
“Listen to me. You must send this to the chemist in the Rue de Passy, and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught he will give you.”
The old woman burst out anew into blessings. Hélène remained seated. The doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he bowed and discreetly took his leave. He had not gone down a flight ere Mother Fétu’s lamentations were renewed.
“Ah! he’s such a clever doctor! Ah! if his medicine could do me some good! Dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from the body. Yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. Have you known him long? Gracious goodness, how thirsty I am! I feel burning hot. He has a wife, hasn’t he? He deserves to have a good wife and beautiful children. Indeed, it’s a pleasure to see kind-hearted people good acquaintances.”
Hélène had risen to give her a drink.
“I must go now, Mother Fétu,” she said. “Good-bye till to-morrow.”
“Ah! how good you are! If I only had some linen! Look at my chemise—it’s torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. But that doesn’t matter. God will requite you, my good lady!”
Next day, on Hélène’s entering Mother Fétu’s room, she found Dr. Deberle already there. Seated on the chair, he was writing out a prescription, while the old woman rattled on with whimpering volubility.