Quick as thought, he suddenly darted forward and pressed the clean handkerchief over the wounded man's mouth and nose. The Vicomte d'Audierne gave a little smothered exclamation of rage, and raised his arms; but the Jesuit was too quick for him, and pinned him down upon the mattress.
After a moment the doctor removed the handkerchief, and the Vicomte lay unconscious and motionless, his delicate lips drawn back in anger, so that the short white teeth gleamed dangerously.
“It is possible,” said the surgeon, feeling his pulse again, “that Monsieur has killed himself by walking into this room.”
Like a cat over its prey, the young doctor leant across the mattress. Without looking round he took up the instruments he wanted, knowing the order in which they lay. He had been excellently taught. The noiseless movements of his white fingers were marvellously dexterous—neat, rapid, and finished. The evil-looking instruments gleamed and flashed beneath the gaslight. He had a peculiar little habit of wiping each one on his shirt-sleeve before and after use, leaving a series of thin red stripes there.
After the lapse of a minute he raised his head, wiped something which he held in his fingers, and passed it across to the Provincial.
“That is the bullet, my father,” he said, without ceasing his occupation, and without raising his eyes from the wounded man.
“Will he live?” asked the Jesuit casually, while he examined the bullet.
“If he tries, my father,” was the meaning reply.
The young doctor was bandaging now, skilfully and rapidly.
“This would be the death of a dog,” said the Provincial, as if musing aloud; for the surgeon was busy at his trade, and the tobacconist had withdrawn some time before.