The operation was a great success.
However, deprived of the attentions which should have preceded the administration of the anesthetic, and which the urgency of the case did not allow them to give us, I lived an instructive but painful dream under the influence of ether.
It lasted, perhaps a quarter of a second—just enough to let me feel the tooth of some scratchy saw, or the edge of some badly sharpened lancet.
The sunset was filling the wash-house with a rosy half-light. Through my lowered eyelids I perceived my mustache.
This was the resurrection of Nicolas Vermont.
It was also the end of Jupiter. They were carving up, at the end of the room, that black mass in which I had sojourned.
In the courtyard the dogs were quarreling for the first bits that Johann had flung to them. My bones were aching.
Lerne was watching by my side. He was quite joyful, as well he might be. Was he not at peace with his conscience? Had he not atoned for his wrongs to me? How could I feel rancor towards him? It even seemed to me that I owed him a certain debt of gratitude.
So true is it, that nothing seems so great a benefit as the reparation of a wrong done.