Garnier, standing with his face averted, heard the sparrows on the roof and an occasional pr-rt, pr-rt from Dodor’s cage, as the lark changed his perch, also a piano-organ, the thinnest of sounds fluctuating on the faint breeze blowing from the direction of the Seine.
Sometimes Dr. Fénélon cleared his throat, or said “Pardon.” Then he began to percuss, and the little blows sounded as if against something solid.
Garnier turned; the examination was over, and the doctor, the stethoscope swinging still from his neck, was buttoning the top button of the nightdress. This accomplished, he stood just for a second with hands folded, overlooking the patient from head to feet; one might almost have imagined him measuring her with his eye.
Célestin, whose eyes had been half closed, suddenly opened them, and muttered something in an alarmed manner.
“What is it?”
“Fantoum,” she muttered, shrinking slightly as if from some vision in the air.
The doctor led Garnier into the atelier, and by the way he closed the bedroom door Garnier knew that it was all up.
“Your wife?” asked the doctor, removing the instrument from his neck and placing it folded in his breast-pocket.
“Oh, no, the wife of a friend—simply that. Ah, my God! I fear she is worse than we thought.”
“So then I can speak: she is moribund. I can absolutely do nothing. You understand? What can I do? One lung is gone. Well, then, the other is greatly touched at the apex—absolutely solid with pneumonia at the base. She is living by a piece of lung not so large as my hand. We cannot change all that.”