"But, monsieur," I said, "we have no doctor, else I would not have brought him here."
"But, nom-de-Dieu! that bullet should have been got out at once. It is pressing on the brain. It may have set up inflammation, and what that may lead to the good God alone knows!"
"Pray get it out at once, monsieur."
"Ay, ay, that's all very well, but the damage may be done, and now, 'cré nom-de-Dieu, you expect me to undo it."
"I am sorry."
"Sorry won't set this right,"—with a shake of the head like an angry bull,—"No—'cré nom-de-Dieu!"
He was a rather violent old man, but skillful with his terrible little tools, and he worked away with them till I left him hurriedly.
He came out after a time with the bullet in his hand, "Le v'là," he said tersely. "And if that was all—bien! But—!" and he shook his head ominously, and talked of matters connected with the brain which were quite beyond me, but still caused me much discomfort.
He told me what to do and promised to return next day.
Torode—I never could bring myself to think of him as my father—came to himself during the night, for in the morning his eyes were open and they followed me with a puzzled lack of understanding. He evidently did not know where he was or how he got there. But he lay quietly and asked no questions except with his eyes.