MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ LIES ILL
It was eleven o'clock, or after, when I sat beside a roaring fire of recently renewed backlogs debating whether I should sleep upon the couch pulled close beside the fireplace, or bundle up and face the cold for five blocks to my home. I had arisen and was drawing the lounge toward the hearth when, again, after a crunching of the snow outside, there came a timid knock on the door. I opened to find a shivering, bent old man upon the threshold whom I recognized straightway as the servant at the old home of the many pillars. He hurriedly informed me in his cracked and high-pitched voice that I was wanted at once by Monsieur l'Abbé Picot, who was ill.
Ten minutes later, upon entering the big cheerful library, I found the man whom I now thought of as St. Jacques of the Streets seated by the fire in a great armchair drawn close to the blaze. His closely cropped head was supported by a pillow, a decanter of wine sat on the table beside him, while Prosper, the old servant, stood by to anticipate any wish. I was shocked at the appearance of the Abbé. I had never before thought of him as little, yet now I saw him not only small, but emaciated. While his countenance was cheerful, yet suffering and deprivation had left their cruel stamp upon him. He seemed slight, worn, and world-weary. He was excessively nervous. A slight fever caused a hectic flush in his sunken, close-shaven cheeks, and lent a preternatural brilliancy to his eyes.
"You will pardon me, Monsieur Doctor," he said politely, yet in a voice which startled me because of a note which was familiar to my ear, "for calling you out into such a night as this, but Prosper," indicating his servant by a wave of the hand, "threatened to take matters upon himself and, knowing something of the nature of his blisters and nostrums, I consented to your being consulted. It is terrible weather to make a man leave comfortable quarters, and I'm sorry."
Of course I assured him of my readiness to attend him. I told him that I thought there was nothing too severe for one to do if it might bring him relief. Upon examination I discovered Monsieur Picot much worse off than he believed himself to be.... While I was not quite sure, desiring to see other developments before fully making up my mind, I felt that my patient was in for a battle the successful outcome of which was equal to about one chance in a hundred.
"First thing, Monsieur," I said, after taking his temperature, his pulse, looking at the tongue, and asking a multitude of questions, "you must go to bed immediately."
"For the night, you mean?" he questioned, with eyes searching penetratingly into mine.
"For several days, Monsieur. It is absolutely necessary," I added, anticipating trouble upon that score.
With a shrug of his shoulders he threw up his hands, a thing which I had seen Jean François do a thousand times, with protest upon every feature. Then, appearing to suddenly lose courage, he gave up, letting his hands drop limply into his lap.
"Mon Dieu! If I must, I must.... Prosper, assist me."