The automobile bore us slowly from Sèvres to the Pasteur Institute, and we found ourselves in the small flat which had been inhabited by the young doctor who had been killed in the war. He had only spent a short stage of his life there. How long should we remain? And what road should we take when we left it? We tried to smile, though our hearts were terribly heavy, in order to cheer each other.
But, in the course of the day, we were surrounded by friends full of solicitude, the tension relaxed, and we felt a growing sense of comfort and security. No more nights of mortal dread and loneliness, with no help at hand! That thought alone inspired courage and hope. In case of need, I had only to send down to the next floor to ask for a doctor.
For a few days, Elie felt much better, perhaps on account of the mental relief, but his heart was weak and his pulse extremely rapid. Drs. Widal, Martin, Veillon, Salimbeni, and Darré came to see him every day; during the whole of his long illness, they never ceased to show him the most attentive and devoted care. They attempted by every means to save him from pain, for, alas, they had no hope of curing him. Nothing was neglected, and many still greater sufferings were spared him.[33]
The war was an inexhaustible and passionately interesting subject of conversation; Elie read a number of newspapers and listened with avidity to every news from private sources. Often, too, scientific questions were discussed, which continued to interest him intensely. These talks were an invaluable relaxation.
Feeling infinitely grateful towards his medical advisers and friends, he showed himself a most docile patient, following their prescriptions with absolute punctuality. When his condition grew worse and he felt no hope whatever of his recovery, he often used to say, “What is to be done? the doctors can do nothing, for medicine is powerless. Unhappily, it will remain so for a long time. Much work will have to be done to rid humanity of the scourge of diseases. But, surely, one day science will succeed in doing so; that will be chiefly through prophylaxis and rational hygiene. There will also be a new science—the science of death; it will be known how to make it less hard.”
After lunch and a short sleep, he received the daily visit of his friend Dr. Roux, with whom he talked in the full intimacy of friendship and affection. He confided to him his apprehensions and desires, and felt unlimited gratitude for his kindness to us, often saying to me, with tears in his eyes, “I knew Roux was a kind man and a true friend, but I see now that he is incomparable.” Other friends also did their utmost to serve him and to show their sympathy. He had the great joy of feeling himself beloved and surrounded with an atmosphere of real kindness. Many times he said to me, “Now, only, have I appreciated the warm-heartedness of the French at its full value. Do not fail, in my biography, to emphasise how deeply I feel it, and how grateful I am. I want them to know it.”
Yet all the care and devotion of which he was the object could neither arrest the fatal progress of disease nor spare cruel suffering to him who had thought of nothing but relieving the pains of others. All our efforts were as flowers scattered over a tomb; he, poor tortured one, was slowly, consciously sinking into it through the implacable logic of Fate. From the beginning of his illness, he foresaw the issue; he lived in constant expectation of death, on the threshold of which his calm and serenity remained as unalterable as were his patience and resignation.
After a temporary and comparative lull, which lasted until the end of December, the disease began to progress again, and almost every week brought a fresh alarming symptom. It was especially during the night that the pain, treacherously, reappeared. After dropping asleep fairly early, he would begin to breathe with difficulty and then awake in an indescribable state of anguish; perspiration drenched his head, neck, and chest, several towels often being required to dry him. His breathing was hard; during bad attacks, the wheezing of his bronchial tubes was terrifying.
He would sit up, his hands clenched, his face blue and contracted by suffering, his darkened lips apart, his eyes dilated—the face of a man on the rack. He gasped like a suffocating man; at last a tearing cough supervened, followed by expectoration, and the attack gradually subsided.