A Treasury of Doctor Stories

by Fabricant, Noah D. ; Werner, Heinz;

  Antoine nodded approval and followed M. Chasle. They crossed a sort of anteroom, redolent of musty cupboards, then two low rooms with tiled floors; the light was dim and the atmosphere stifling despite the open windows giving on a courtyard. In the further room Antoine had to edge round a circular table where a meal for four was laid on a strip of dingy oilcloth. M. Chasle opened a door and, entering a brightly lit room, stumbled forward with a piteous cry:

  “Dedette! Dedette!”

  “Now, Jules!” a raucous voice protested.

  The first thing Antoine noticed was the lamp which a woman in a pink dressing-gown was lifting with both hands; her ruddy hair, her throat and forehead were flooded with the lamplight. Then he observed the bed on which the light fell, and shadowy forms bending above it. Dregs of the sunset, filtering through the window, merged in the halo of the lamp, and the room was bathed in a half-light where all things took the semblance of a dream. Antoine helped M. Chasle to a chair and approached the bed. A young man wearing pince-nez, with his hat still on, was bending forward and slitting up with a pair of scissors the blood-stained garments of the little girl. Her face, ringed with matted hair, lay buried in the bolster. An old woman on her knees was helping the doctor.

  “Is she alive?” Antoine asked.

  The doctor turned, looked at him, and hesitated; then mopped his forehead.

  “Yes.” His tone lacked assurance.

  “I was with M. Chasle when he was sent for,” Antoine explained, “and I’ve brought my first-aid kit. I’m Dr. Thibault,” he added in a whisper, “house-physician at the Children’s Hospital.”

  The young doctor rose and was about to make way for Antoine.

  “Carry on! Carry on!” Antoine drew back a step. “Pulse?”

  “Almost imperceptible,” the doctor replied, intent once more on his task.

  Antoine raised his eyes towards the red-haired young woman, saw the anxiety in her face, and made a suggestion.

  “Wouldn’t it be best to telephone for an ambulance and have your child taken at once to my hospital?”

  “No!” an imperious voice answered him.

  Then Antoine descried an old woman standing at the head of the bed—was it the child’s grandmother?—and scanning him intently with eyes limpid as water, a peasant’s eyes. Her pointed nose and resolute features were half submerged in a vast sea of fat that heaved in billowy folds upon her neck.

  “I know we look like paupers,” she continued in a resigned tone, “but, believe me, even folk like us would rather die at home in our own beds. Dedette shan’t go to the hospital.”

  “But why not, Madame?” Antoine protested.

  She straightened up her back, thrust out her chin and sadly but sternly rebuked him.

  “We prefer not,” was all she said.

  Antoine tried to catch the eye of the younger woman, but she was busy brushing off the flies that obstinately settled on her glowing cheeks, and seemed of no opinion. He decided to appeal to M. Chasle. The old fellow had fallen on his knees in front of the chair to which Antoine had led him; his head was buried on his folded arms as though to shut out all sights from his eyes, and, from his ears, all sounds. The old lady, who was keenly watching Antoine’s movements, guessed his intention and forestalled him.

  “Isn’t that so, Jules?”

  M. Chasle started.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She looked at him approvingly and her voice grew mothering.

  “Don’t stay there, Jules. You’d be much better in your room.”

  A pallid forehead rose into view, eyes tremulous behind their spectacles; then, without a protest, the poor old fellow stood up and tiptoed from the room.

  Antoine bit his lips. Meanwhile, pending an occasion further to insist, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves above the elbows. Then he knelt at the bedside. He seldom took thought without at the same time beginning to take action—such was his incapacity for long deliberation on any issue raised, and such his keenness to be up and doing. The avoidance of mistakes counted less with him than bold decision and prompt activity. Thought, as he used it, was merely the lever that set an act in motion—premature though it might be.

  Aided by the doctor and the old woman’s trembling hands, he had soon stripped off the child’s clothing; pale, almost grey, her body lay beneath their eyes in its frail nakedness. The impact of the car must have been very violent, for she was covered with bruises, and a black strenk crossed her thigh transversely from hip to knee.

  “It’s the right leg,” Antoine’s colleague observed. Her right foot was twisted, bent inwards, and the whole leg was spattered with blood and deformed, shorter than the other one.

  “Fracture of the femur?” suggested the doctor.

  Antoine did not answer. He was thinking. “That’s not all,” he said to himself; “the shock is too great for that. But what can it be?” He tapped her knee-cap, then ran his fingers slowly up her thigh; suddenly there spurted through an almost imperceptible lesion on the inner side of the thigh, some inches above the knee, a jet of blood.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “The femoral artery!” the other exclaimed.

  Antoine rose quickly to his feet. The need to make, unaided, a decision gave him a new access of energy and, as ever when others were present, his sense of power intensified. A surgeon? he speculated. No, we’d never get her alive to the hospital. Then who? I? Why not? And, anyhow, there’s no alternative.

  “Will you try a ligature?” asked the doctor, piqued by Antoine’s silence.

  But Antoine did not heed his question. It must be done, he was thinking, and without a moment’s delay; it may be too late already, who knows? He threw a quick glance round him. A ligature. What can be used? Let’s see. The red-headed girl hasn’t a belt; no loops on the curtains. Something elastic. Ah, I have it! In a twinkling he had thrown off his waistcoat and unfastened his braces. Snapping them with a jerk, he knelt down again, made with them a tourniquet, and clamped it tightly round the child’s groin.

  “Good! Two minutes’ breathing-time,” he said as he rose. Sweat was pouring down his cheeks. He knew that every eye was fixed on him. “Only an immediate operation,” he said decisively, “can save her life. Let’s try!”

  The others moved away at once from the bed—even the woman with the lamp, even the young doctor, whose face had paled.

  Antoine clenched his teeth, his eyes narrowed and grew hard, he seemed to peer into himself. Must keep calm, he mused. A table? That round table I saw, coming in.

  “Bring the lamp!” he cried to the young woman, then turned to the doctor. “You there—come with me!” He strode quickly into the next room. Good, he said to himself; here’s our operating-theatre. With a quick gesture he cleared the table, stacked the plates in a pile. “That’s for my lamp.” Like a general in charge of a campaign, he allotted each thing its place. “Now for our little patient.” He went back to the bedroom. The doctor and the young woman hung on his every gesture and followed close behind him. Addressing the doctor, he pointed to the child:

  “I’ll carry her. She’s light as a feather. Hold up her leg, you.”

  As he slipped his arms under the child’s back and carried her to the table, she moaned faintly. He took the lamp from the red-haired woman and, removing the shade, stood it on the pile of plates. As he surveyed the scene, a thought came suddenly and went: “I’m a wonderful fellow!” The lamp gleamed like a brazier, reddening the ambient shadow, where only the young woman’s glowing cheeks and the doctor’s pince-nez showed up as high-lights; its rays fell harshly on the little body, which twitched spasmodically. The swarming flies seemed worked up to frenzy by the oncoming storm. Heat and anxiety brought beads of sweat to Antoine’s brow. Would she live through it? he wondered, but some dark force he did not analyse buoyed up his faith; never had he felt so sure of himself.

  He seized his bag and, taking out a bottle of chloroform and some gauze, handed the former to the doctor.
r />   “Open it somewhere. On the sideboard. Take off the sewing-machine. Get everything out.”

  As he turned, holding the bottle, he noticed two dim figures in the dark doorway, the two old women like statues posted there. One, M. Chasle’s mother, had great, staring eyes, an owl’s eyes; the other was pressing her breast with her clasped hands.

  “Go away!” he commanded. They retreated some steps into the shadows of the bedroom, but he pointed to the other end of the flat. “No. Out of the room. That way.” They obeyed, crossed the room, vanished without a word.

  “Not you!” he cried angrily to the red-haired woman, who was about to follow them.

  She turned on her heel and, for a moment, he took stock of her. She had a handsome, rather fleshy face, touched with a certain dignity, it seemed, by grief; an air of calm maturity that pleased him. Poor woman! he could not help thinking. . . . But I need her!

  “You’re the child’s mother?” he asked.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “All the better.”

  As he spoke he had been soaking the gauze and now he swiftly stretched it over the child’s nose. “Stand there, and keep this.” He handed her the bottle. “When I give the signal, you’ll pour some more of it on.”

  The air grew heavy with the reek of chloroform. The little girl groaned, drew a deep breath or two, grew still.

  A last look round. The field was clear; the rest lay with the surgeon’s skill. Now that the crucial moment had come, Antoine’s anxieties vanished as if by magic. He went to the sideboard where the doctor, holding the bag, was laying on a napkin the last of its contents. “Let’s see,” he murmured, as though to gain a few seconds’ respite. “There’s the instrument-box; good. The scalpel, the artery-forceps. A packet of gauze, cotton-wool, that’ll do. Alcohol. Caffeine. Tincture of iodine. And so forth. . . . All’s ready. Let’s begin.” And yet again there came to him that sense of buoyancy, of boundless confidence, of vital energies tautened to breaking-point, and, crowning all, a proud awareness of being lifted high above his workaday self.

  Raising his head, he looked his junior for a moment in the eyes. “Have you the nerve?” his eyes seemed to inquire. “It’s going to be a tough job. Now for it!”

  The young man did not flinch. And now he hung on Antoine’s gestures with servile assiduity. Well he knew that in this operation lay their only hope, but never would he have dared to take the risk, alone. With Antoine, however, nothing seemed impossible.

  He’s not so bad, this young chap, thought Antoine. Lucky for me! Let’s see. A basin? No matter—this will do as well. Grasping the bottle of iodine he sluiced his arms up to the elbow with the liquid.

  “Your turn!” He passed the bottle to the doctor, who was feverishly polishing the lenses of his pince-nez.

  A vivid lightning flash, closely followed by a deafening clap of thunder, lit up the window.

  “A bit previous, the applause,” Antoine said to himself. “I hadn’t even taken up my lancet. The young woman didn’t turn a hair. It’ll cool things down; good for our nerves. Must be pretty nearly a hundred degrees in this room.”

  He had laid out a series of compresses round the injured limb, delimiting the operative field. Now he turned towards the young woman.

  “A whiff of chloroform. That’ll do. Right!”

  She obeys orders, he mused, like a soldier under fire. Women! Then, fixing his eyes on the swollen little thigh, he swallowed his saliva and raised the scalpel.

  “Here goes!”

  With one neat stroke he cut the skin.

  “Swab!” he commanded the doctor bending beside him. “What a thin child!” he said to himself. “Well, we’ll be there all the sooner. Hallo, there’s little Dedette starting snoring! Good! Better be quick about it. Now for the retractors.”

  “Now, you,” he said aloud, and the other let fall the blood-stained swabs of cotton-wool and, grasping the retractors, held the wound open.

  Antoine paused a moment. “Good!” he murmured. “My probe? Here it is. In Hunter’s canal. The classical ligation; all’s well. Zip! Another flash! Must have landed pretty near. On the Louvre. Perhaps on the ‘gentlemen at Saint-Roch.’ ” He felt quite calm—no more anxiety for the child, none for death’s imminence—and cheerfully repeated under his breath: “The ligature of the femoral artery in Hunter’s canal.”

  Zip! There goes another! Hardly any rain, either. It’s stifling. Artery injured at the site of the fracture; the end of the bone tore it open. Simple as anything. Still she hadn’t much blood to spare. He glanced at the little girl’s face. Hallo! Better hurry up. Simple as anything—but could be fatal, too. A forceps; right! Another; that will do. Zip! These flashes are getting a bore; cheap effect! I’ve only plaited silk; must make the best of it. Breaking a tube, he pulled out the skein and made a ligature beside each forceps. Splendid! Almost finished now. The collateral circulation will be quite enough, especially at that age. I’m really wonderful! Can I have missed my vocation? I’ve all the makings of a surgeon, sure enough; a great surgeon. In the silent interval between two thunder-claps dying into the distance, the sharp metallic click of scissors snipping the loose ends of the silk was audible. Yes; quickness of eye, coolness, energy, dexterity. Suddenly he picked up his ears and his cheeks paled.

  “The devil!” he muttered under his breath.

  The child had ceased to breathe.

  Brushing aside the woman, he tore away the gauze from the unconscious child’s face and pressed his ear above her heart. Doctor and young woman waited in suspense, their eyes fixed on Antoine.

  “No!” he murmured. “She’s breathing still.”

  He took the child’s wrist, but her pulse was so rapid that he did not attempt to count it. “Ouf!” He drew a deep breath, the lines of anxiety deepened on his forehead. The two others felt his gaze pass across their faces, but he did not see then..

  He rapped out a brief command.

  “You, doctor, remove the forceps, put on a dressing, and then undo the tourniquet. Quickly. You, Madame, get me some note-paper—no, you needn’t; I’ve my note-book.” He wiped his hands feverishly with a wad of cotton-wool. “What’s the time? Not nine yet. The pharmacist’s open. You’ll have to hurry.”

  She stood before him, waiting; her tentative gesture—to wrap the dressing-gown more closely round her body—told him of her reluctance at going thus, half dressed, into the streets, and for the fraction of a second a picture of the opulent form under the garment held his imagination. He scribbled a prescription, signed it. “A two-pint ampoule. As quickly as you can.”

  “And if—?” she stammered.

  “If the pharmacist’s shut, ring, and keep on hammering on the door till they open. Be quick!”

  She was gone. He followed her with his eyes to make sure she was running, then addressed the doctor.

  “We’ll try the saline. Not subcutaneously; that’s hopeless now. Intravenously. Our last hope.” He took two small phials from the sideboard.

  “You’ve removed the tourniquet? Right. Give her an injection of camphor to begin with, then the caffeine—only half of it for her, poor kid! Only, for God’s sake, be quick about it!”

  He went back to the child and took her thin wrist between his fingers; now he could feel nothing more than a vague, restless fluttering. “It’s got past counting,” he said to himself. And suddenly a feeling of impotence, of sheer despair, swept over him.

  “God damn it!” he broke out. “To think it went off perfectly—and it was all no use!”

  The child’s face became more livid with every second. She was dying. Antoine observed, beside the parted lips, two slender strands of curling hair, lighter than gossamer, that rose and fell; anyhow, she was breathing still.

  He watched the doctor giving the injections. Neat with his fingers, he thought, considering his short sight. But we can’t save her. Vexation rather than grief possessed him. He had the callousness common to doctors, for whom the sufferings of others count
only as so much new experience, or profit, or professional advantage; men to whose fortunes death and pain are frequent ministers.

  But then he thought he heard a banging door and ran towards the sound. It was the young woman coming back with quick, lithe steps, trying to conceal her breathlessness. He snatched the parcel from her hands.

  “Bring some hot water.” He did not even pause to thank her.

  “Boiled?”

  “No. To warm the solution. Be quick!”

  He had hardly opened the parcel when she returned, bringing a steaming saucepan.

  “Good! Excellent!” he murmured, but did not look towards her.

  No time to lose. In a few seconds he had nipped off the tips of the ampoule and slipped on the rubber tubing. A Swiss barometer in carved wood hung on the wall. With one hand he unhooked it, while with the other he hung the ampoule on the nail. Then he took the saucepan of hot water, hesitated for the fraction of a second, and looped the rubber tubing round the bottom of it. That’ll heat the saline as it flows through, he said to himself. Smart idea, that! He glanced towards the other doctor to see if he had noticed what he had done. At last he came back to the child, lifted her inert arm, and sponged it with iodine. Then, with a stroke of his scalpel, he laid bare the vein, slipped his probe beneath it and inserted the needle.

  “It’s flowing in all right,” he cried. “Take her pulse. I’ll stay where I am.”

  The ten minutes that followed seemed an eternity. No one moved or spoke.

  Streaming with sweat, breathing rapidly, with knitted brows, Antoine waited, his gaze riveted on the needle. After a while he glanced up at the ampoule.

  “How much gone?”

  “Nearly a pint.”

  “The pulse?”

  The doctor silently shook his head.

  Five more minutes passed, five minutes more of sickening suspense. Antoine looked up again.

  “How much left?”

  “Just over half a pint.”

  “And the pulse?”

  The doctor hesitated.

  “I’m not sure. I almost think . . . it’s beginning to come back a little.”