I interrupted her lamentations by saying:
“Monsieur Charnot, I think we had better take Monsieur Mouillard up to bed.”
“Then why don’t you do it?” shouted the numismatist, who had completely lost his temper. “I didn’t come here to act at an ambulance; but, since I must, do you take his head.”
I took his head, Madeleine walked in front, Jeanne behind. My uncle’s vast proportions swayed between M. Charnot and myself. M. Charnot, who had skilfully gathered up the legs, looked like a hired pallbearer.
As we met with some difficulty in getting upstairs, M. Charnot said, with clenched teeth:
“You’ve managed this trip nicely, Monsieur Fabien; I congratulate you sincerely!”
I saw that he intended to treat me to several variations on this theme.
But there was no time for talk. A moment later my uncle was laid, still unconscious, upon his bed, and Jeanne and Madeleine were preparing a mustard-plaster together, in perfect harmony. M. Charnot and I waited in silence for the doctor whom we had sent the office-boy to fetch. M. Charnot studied alternately my deceased aunt’s wreath of orange-blossoms, preserved under a glass in the centre of the chimney-piece, and a painting of fruit and flowers for which it would have been hard to find a buyer at an auction. Our wait for the doctor lasted ten long minutes. We were very anxious, for M. Mouillard showed no sign of returning consciousness. Gradually, however, the remedies began to act upon him. The eyelids fluttered feebly; and just as the doctor opened the door, my uncle opened his eyes.
We rushed to his bedside.
“My old friend,” said the doctor, “you have had plenty of people to look after you. Let me feel your pulse—rather weak; your tongue? Say a word or two.”