“Oh, dear!” murmured Cousin, “it’s bleeding again. One never gets any peace.”
I had called for help. A waterproof sheet was folded round Cousin’s thigh.
He said, “It’s all right; it’s all right. No need to worry.”
He said this in a voice that was emphatic but very weak—a voice made with the lips alone.
The blood ceased to flow, and they carried Cousin once again to the operating-table. There, he had a moment’s peace. The surgeons were washing their hands. I heard them consulting in low voices on Cousin’s case, and this made my heart beat and dried the tongue in my mouth.
Cousin saw me a long way off, and made me a little sign with his eyelids. I came close to him. He said to me:
“One never gets any peace. Ah! what was it I was saying to you? Yes, I was talking to you about styles. My strong point is that I understand the different styles—the Louis XV, the Empire, the Dutch, the Modern, and all the others. But it’s difficult. I want to explain to you——”
“Go to sleep, Cousin,” said the surgeon softly.
“I will explain all that to you when these gentlemen have done with me, when I wake up.”
Then, submissively, he began to breathe in the ether.