“He had a word of cordial encouragement and hope for every one. He had so far succeeded in raising the spirits of the patients, that some of them who were less affected by the cholera than by the fear of it, were able to quit the hospital nearly well.”
“What a pity! So good a young man! Well, he died gloriously; it requires as much courage as on the field of battle.”
“He had only one rival in zeal and courage, and that is a Young priest, with an angelic countenance, whom they call the Abbe Gabriel. He is indefatigable; he hardly takes an hour’s rest, but runs from one to the other, and offers himself to everybody. He forgets nothing. The consolation; which he offers come from the depths of his soul, and are not mere formalities in the way of his profession. No, no, I saw him weep over a poor woman, whose eyes he had closed after a dreadful agony. Oh, if all priests were like him!”
“No doubt, a good priest is most worthy of respect. But! who is the other victim of last night?”
“Oh! his death was frightful. Do not speak of it. I have still the horrible scene before my eyes.”
“A sudden attack of cholera?”
“If it had only been the contagion, I should not so shudder at the remembrance.”
“What then did he die of?”
“It is a string of horrors. Three days ago, they brought here a man, who was supposed to be only attacked with cholera. You have no doubt heard speak of this personage. He is the lion-tamer, that drew all Paris to the Porte-Saint-Martin.”
“I know the man you mean. Called Morok. He performed a kind of play with a tame panther.”