“I have heard of the douche baths,” said Mr. Channing. “Rather fierce, are they not?”
“Fierce!” echoed the doctor. “The first time I tried one, I thought I should never come out alive. The water was dashed upon me, through a tube, with what seemed alarming force until I grew used to it; whilst an attendant rubbed and turned and twisted my limbs about, as if they had been so many straws in his strong hand. So violent is the action of the water that my face had to be protected by a board, lest it should come into contact with it.”
“Strong treatment!” remarked Mr. Channing.
“Strong, but effectual. Effectual, so far as my case was concerned. Whether it was drinking the water, or the sulphur baths, the douches, the pure air, or the Prussian doctor’s medicine, or all combined, I was, under God’s goodness, restored to health. I entertain no doubt that you may be restored in like manner.”
“And the cost?” asked Mr. Channing, with a sigh he could not wholly suppress.
“There’s the beauty of it! the advantage to us poor folks, who possess a shallow purse, and that only half filled,” laughed Dr. Lamb. “Had it been costly, I could not have afforded it. These baths, mind you, are in the hotel, which is the greatest possible accommodation to invalids; the warm baths cost a franc each, the douche two francs, the water you drink, nothing. The doctor’s fee is four and sixpence, and you need not consult him often. Ascertain the proper course, and go on with it.”
“But the hotel expenses?”
“That cost me four shillings a day, everything included, except a trifle for servants. Candles alone were extras, and I did not burn them very much, for I was glad to go to bed early. Wine I do not take, or that also would have been an extra. You could not live very much cheaper at home.”
“How I should like to go!” broke from the lips of Mr. Channing.
Hamish came forward. “You must go, my dear father! It shall be managed.”