There was a little, old, dried-up Frenchman in a blue nightcap,
extended on a bed in the middle of the room and covered with a white
counterpane that clung close to his rigid form as to a corpse.
And there was a little, old, dried-up Frenchwoman in a brown merino
gown and a high-crowned muslin cap who hopped and chattered about
the bed like a frightened magpie.
"Ou! Monsieur le Docteur!" she screamed, jumping at Traverse in a
way to make him start back; "Ou, Monsieur le Docteur, I am very
happy you to see! Voila mon frere! Behold my brother! He is ill! He
is verra ill! He is dead! He is verra dead!"
"I hope not," said Traverse, approaching the bed.
"Voila, behold! Mon dieu, he is verra still! He is verra cold! He is
verra dead! What can you, mon frere, my brother to save?"
"Be composed, madam, if you please, and allow me to examine my
patient," said Traverse.
"Ma foi! I know not what you speak 'compose.' What can you my
brother to save?"
"Much, I hope, madam, but you must leave me to examine my patient
and not interrupt me," said Traverse, passing his hand over the
naked chest of the sick man.
"Mon Dieu! I know not 'exam' and 'interrup'! and I know not what can
you mon frere to save!"
"If you don't hush parley-vooing, the doctor can do nothink, mum,"
said the waiter, in a respectful tone.
Traverse found his patient in a bad condition--in a stupor, if not
in a state of positive insensibility.
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