«Yes. He is wonderful, the doctor. Figure to yourself, monsieur, she cannot forget, poor child, the things she has seen.» She leaned nearer, so that the child might not hear. «We have escaped — from starving Russia — six months ago. I dare not tell you — she has such quick ears, and then, the cries, the tremblings, the convulsions — they all begin again. We were skeletons when we arrived — mon Dieu! — but that is better now. See, she is thin, but she is not starved. She would be fatter but for the nerves that keep her from eating. We who are older, we forget — enfin, on apprend a ne pas y penser — but these children! When one is young, monsieur, tout ca impressionne trop.»
Lord Peter, escaping from the thraldom of British good form, expressed himself in that language in which sympathy is not condemned to mutism.
«But she is much better, much better,» said the mother, proudly, «the great doctor, he does marvels.»
«C'est un homme precieux,» said Lord Peter.
«Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint qui opere des miracles! Nous prions pour lui, Natasha et moi, tous les jours. N'est-ce pas, cherie? And consider, monsieur, that he does it all, ce grand homme, cet homme illustre, for nothing at all. When we come here, we have not even the clothes upon our backs — we are ruined, famished. Et avec ca que nous sommes de bonne famille — mais helas! monsieur, en Russie, comme vous savez, ca ne vous vaut que des insultes — des atrocites. Enfin! the great Sir Julian sees us, he says — “Madame, your little girl is very interesting to me. Say no more. I cure her for nothing — pour ses beaux yeux, a-t-il ajoute en riant”. Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint, un veritable saint! and Natasha is much, much better.»
«Madame, je vous en felicite.»
«And you, monsieur? You are young, well, strong — you also suffer? It is still the war, perhaps?»
«A little remains of shell-shock,» said Lord Peter.
«Ah, yes. So many good, brave, young men —»
«Sir Julian can spare you a few minutes, my lord, if you will come in now,» said the servant.