The skin of the torpid patient had been reddening for a few seconds, so as to prove that its sensibility was returning, and now when the stream from the kettle began to mix with the already very hot bath, and to raise its temperature almost to boiling, suddenly there was heard a cry from the bath, and the patient, with the agility of youth and health, skipped out of the tub and into his bed, kicking vigorously and exclaiming:
"Brigands! Assassins! You have scalded my legs to death!"
"Glory be to the Lord, he's saved!" cried one of the waiters, a devout Irishman.
"Ciel! he speaks! he moves! he lives! mon frère!" cried the little Frenchwoman, going to him.
"Ah, murderers! bandits! you've scalded me to death! I'll have you all before the commissaire!"
"He scolds! he threatens! he swears! he gets well! mon frère!" cried the old woman, busying herself to change his clothes and put on his flannel nightgown. They then tucked him up warmly in bed and put bottles of hot water all around, to keep up this newly stimulated circulation.
At that moment Dr. Rocke came in, put his hand into the bath-tub and could scarcely repress a cry of pain and of horror—the water scalded his fingers! What must it have done to the sick man?
"Good heavens, madam! I did not tell you to parboil your patient!" exclaimed Traverse, speaking to the old woman. Traverse was shocked to find how perilously his orders had been exceeded.
"Eh bien, Monsieur! he lives! he does well! voilà mon frère!" exclaimed the little old woman.
It was true: the accidental "boiling bath," as it might almost be called, had effected what perhaps no other means in the world could—a restored circulation.