The Surgeon's Mate

  After a long and black but airy night—a cruelly disturbed night for Jack, an anxious one for Stephen, a night peaceful only for Jagiello, whose brisk young bowels had quite recovered after the last upheaval—the grey creeping dawn gave them the first clear notion of their quarters. Three little very dirty rooms leading into one another, each with a barred window looking out on to a towering great blank wall on the other side of the dry moat, and each with a judased door on to the corridor. So many doors and windows in so small a space so high up were enough to ensure a strange complication of draughts, but they were not all, since the first room had still another door in the left-hand wall, blind and immovably bolted on the far side, as well as a corbelled projection jutting from the tower, a primitive jakes or privy dating from the Templars themselves, through whose open base the wind came howling in whenever it happened to be in the north or east.

  It seemed that until recently the rooms had been inhabited by a single man, a prisoner of some distinction; for there was a reasonable bed in the first room and a wash-hand-stand with a tap from a cistern under the leads, while he had taken his meals in the second, and the third had been his study or music-room—there were still some tattered books in a corner, and a disjointed flute—and judging by the greasy marks in the deep-cut window-seat that he and no doubt other generations of prisoners had left, it was here that he had spent most of his time. This was the only window from which they could see much, the others being little more than shafts in the great cold thickness of the wall; but here, by craning out against the bars, they had a view of the moat below, the wall beyond, and of a file of corbelled privies stretching away on the left hand, each with a strong growth of vegetation below it, favoured by some six hundred years of enrichment.

  This was their view on the first morning, and having craned Stephen said that they were in the Courcy tower, probably on the side facing the rue des Neuf Fiancées, the side away from the great tower.

  'The great tower of what, if you please?' asked Jagiello.

  'Why, of the Temple. The Temple, where the King was imprisoned,' said Stephen, 'and most of his family.'

  'The Temple, where they killed poor Wright,' said Jack in a sombre voice, and he gave the guard a sombre, dangerous look when the man came in, rattling his keys, to ask whether these gentlemen wanted the ration or whether they preferred to send out. The search had removed such dangerous things as their razors and Stephen's surprising store of money; the searchers had not found his sudden release, nor could they have done so unless they had searched his vitals; but they had given a receipt for all the rest, stating that the prisoner might draw on the sum for food and approved comforts: spirits were not allowed, nor any publications other than the Moniteur. These gentlemen might have the ration, the prison ration, said the guard (a melancholy man) or they might send out for their victuals. If they chose to send out, Rousseau—tapping his pendulous middle-aged belly—was at their service, for a modest, a very modest consideration. The gaoler was a slow, heavy man, but he knew to a penny the sum that had been taken from the prisoners; there were rich pickings to be had here, and his air was as nearly civil as he could make it. Besides, there was no real ill-nature in his vague, thick-boned face, though his spirits were obviously very low indeed.'

  'I should like the ration,' said the penniless Jagiello.

  'Nonsense,' said Stephen, and to Rousseau, 'We shall certainly send out. But before that, I must ask you to tell the surgeon that the gentleman here is in urgent need of his attention.'

  Rousseau slowly turned his head to Jack, who was indeed most ghastly pale, and contemplated him for a while. 'We have no surgeon, sir,' he said at last. 'The last left three weeks ago. And to think we once had seven; and our own apothecary. Oh the pity of it all.'

  'Then you will present my best compliments to the deputy-governor, and tell him I should be grateful for an interview at his earliest convenience.'

  The governor's convenience was far earlier than Stephen had expected. Rousseau came back within minutes and led him, between two soldiers, down the many flights of stairs. The turnkey's spirits were still very low, but at one particular corner he stopped to point out a hollow cut into the stone, an inverted shelf. 'That is where we always used to rest the coffins, before taking the awkward turn,' he said. 'Mind your step, sir. And to think we once had a coffin-maker of our own, busy every day the good God made.'

  The governor's approach was stiff and formal, but it was by no means harsh or authoritarian and after a while Stephen thought he detected something almost conciliatory, something of the nervous uneasiness he had noticed elsewhere in France, a perhaps not altogether conscious feeling of no longer being quite certainly on the winning side. The governor regretted the absence of an official surgeon, and agreed that outside advice might be called in. 'Though since you are yourself a physical gentleman,' he said, 'I will have the drugs sent for at once, if you wish to prescribe.'

  That did not suit Stephen's book at all. 'You are very good, sir,' he said, 'but in the present case I should prefer a second opinion: in these circumstances I do not choose to take the responsibility myself. Captain Aubrey is a very influential man in his own country, where his father is a member of parliament, and I should be most unwilling to have to answer for any unfortunate event. I had thought of calling in Dr Larrey . . .'

  'The Emperor's surgeon, sir?' cried the governor, staring. 'Do you speak seriously?'

  'We were students together, sir, and he was present when I had the honour of addressing the Institut earlier in the year,' said Stephen with the simplicity of truth, and he observed that the blow went home. 'But since I see in the Moniteur that he is spending the rest of the week at Metz, perhaps the local man will do for the moment.'

  'There is a Dr Fabre at the end of the street,' said the governor. 'I will send for him.'

  Dr Fabre was very young, newly-installed, very shy, very willing to please: he came at once, and for some reason, perhaps connected with the prison's prestige, the governor saw fit to stun him with Stephen's eminence. Fabre had not actually attended Dr Maturin's lecture at the Institut he said as they walked upstairs, but he had read an account of it; and he had been amazed by the constellation of scientific and medical luminaries present, including his former professors Dr Larrey, Dr Dupuytren . . . He had the honour of being known to Monsieur Gay-Lussac, he whispered, just outside the door.

  He examined the patient, agreed with Dr Maturin's diagnosis, agreed with the proposed remedies, hurried off to compound them himself and returned directly, bearing bottles, pills, and boluses. They talked for a while before he left, mostly about the Paris medical and philosophical world, and Stephen showed away in a somewhat disgusting fashion, speaking of his publications and naming the great men he knew, and saying as they parted, 'Should you see any of my friends, dear colleague, pray give them the good day from me.'

  'I shall, I shall,' said the young man. 'I see Dr Dupuytren for example every Tuesday at the Hôtel Dieu; and sometimes Dr Larrey, from a distance.'

  'You do not happen to know Dr Baudelocque, the accoucheur, by any chance?'

  'Indeed I do. My wife's brother married his sister's niece. I can almost call him kin.'

  'Ah? I consulted with him when I was last in Paris, leaving my patient in his hands, an American lady. There may well be some difficulty of presentation, the result of a long sea-voyage. He was not altogether easy in his mind, I recall. If you should happen to see him, be so good as to ask him how she does—it was an interesting case. And when you come to see our dysentery here on Friday, please bring me half a dozen of Michel's finest glass ampullae.'

  'I am glad that is done,' said Stephen, listening to the footsteps as they faded down the corridor. 'It was odious, and I wonder that decent young man did not revolt; but at least there is now much less likelihood of our being quietly shuffled off. Never was there such a talkative, intermarried, clannish band as the Paris physicians, and once our presence is known . . . Now swallow this good bolus, my
dear, and you will feel better tomorrow: you may even have a little of our coffee, of the coffee that we must now put in hand.' Rousseau returned from leading Dr Fabre away, and Stephen said to him, 'Certainly we shall send out. The question is, where? This gentleman,'—meaning Captain Aubrey—'must have his new-laid egg, his gruel and rice-water fresh and fresh; and for my part I like my coffee hot.'

  'There is no difficulty,' said the guard. 'I know a little place not a hundred yards from here: Madame veuve Lehideux, cooked dishes at all hours, choice wines.'

  'Then let us by all means send to the widow. Fresh milk and plain crumb-bread for these gentlemen, coffee and croissants for me: particularly strong coffee, if you please.'

  Rousseau took no notice of this, but pursued the one idea already in his head. 'Some clients like to send out to Voisin's and Ruhl's and such places; some clients like to fling their money out of the window. I do not wish to impose my views on any client: no one can say that Rousseau has imposed his views on any client; and tastes differ. The last gentleman here and he was a very high gentleman too sent out to Ruhl's, whatever I might say, and what happened? He died of a pneumonia in that very bed,'—pointing to it and indeed patting the counterpane. 'Died the afternoon you came in: I dare say you still felt it warm, sir, which reminds me I promised him a board for the shit-hole pardon the expression, the last one fell out he always was an awkward companion and grew worse with the rheumatism fairly bent double at the end may he rest in peace.'

  'Then let us send to Madame Lehideux,' said Stephen.

  Rousseau ploughed straight on: 'I do not say it is the Emperor's table; I will not deceive you, gentlemen. It is only an honest cuisine bourgeoise, but such a civet de lapin!'—kissing his thick fingers—'such a truly velvet poule au pot! And the great point is, you get your dishes hot. I always say, food must be hot. It is only a small place, but it is not a stone's throw from here: it is in the rue des Neuf Fiancées, without a word of lie; so the food can be brought in hot, if you understand me.'

  'Then let us send to Madame Lehideux,' said Stephen. 'Milk, crumb-bread, coffee and croissants; and please to mention particularly that the coffee should be strong.'

  The coffee came, and it was strong. Hot, strong, and wonderfully aromatic; the croissants unctuous, but not too unctuous. It was a remarkably good breakfast, all the better for being so late: certainly the best that Stephen had eaten in any of his prisons. He felt stronger, more capable of dealing with most emergencies that might arise: delation, the sudden treachery of a captured or a double agent, even severe interrogation.

  He was prepared, he had long been prepared, for many eventualities; but not for neglect. It astonished him, took him quite aback, made him feel obscurely foolish, though at the same time still more deeply apprehensive. Day after day they saw no one but Rousseau bringing up their food or peering at them surreptitiously through the judas, and once a week the barber, a deaf mute; and after what was by the calendar a very short time they fell into so even a course of life that they might have been there for months. The only break in the steady pace was that early Friday when Dr Fabre returned. He viewed Captain Aubrey with approval and listened conscientiously to the effect of the potions, boluses and pills; but he was a sad young man, almost distracted, almost overwhelmed with unhappiness, for he had received orders to join the 107th Regiment of the line somewhere in the gloomy wastes of northern Europe, in a town whose name he could not even pronounce. Unless he could obtain a most improbable exemption his nascent practice was ruined. He had been hurrying about among all the influential men he knew, however remotely, in the hope of their good word. He had seen Dr Larrey, and he was most grateful for having been able to use Dr Maturin's name as an introduction to his own plea: indeed, Dr Maturin's name had been most valuable to him as he made his rounds—they all remembered him. Dr Dupuytren, Dr Baudelocque . . . They were all deeply concerned at Dr Maturin's predicament—were convinced it was an administrative error and that it would soon be set right—would make representations in the proper quarters—offered their services if there were material difficulties of any kind. And Dr Baudelocque had given Fabre a message about the American patient: his misgivings had been confirmed, and he was by no means sure that the foetus was viable. There was a history of prolonged, violent seasickness, and that might be one of the causes; but in any event, Dr Baudelocque could not be at all confident that the lady would arrive at term.

  'Just as well,' observed Stephen. 'There are far, far too many children as it is.'

  'Oh, surely, sir . . .' cried Dr Fabre, who had five, with another due in a few weeks' time.

  'Surely, sir,' said Stephen, 'no thinking man will deliberately entail life upon still another being in this overcrowded world perpetually at war?'

  'Perhaps, sir,' suggested Fabre, 'not all children are deliberately begotten?'

  'No,' said Stephen. 'If men were to consider what they were at—if they were to look about them, and reflect upon the cost of life in a universe where prisons, brothels, madhouses, and regiments of men armed and trained to kill other men are so very common—why, I doubt we should see many of these poor mewling little larval victims, so often a present misery to their parents and a future menace to their kind.'

  Tears gathered in the young man's eyes; but recollecting himself he put his hand to his pocket and said, 'Here are the ampullae you asked for.'

  'Thank you, thank you, dear colleague,' said Stephen, taking them carefully in their wooden box—they were for his own private use, for his more certain exit in case of need—'I am very much obliged to you.'

  'Not at all,' said Fabre, and he took his leave, saying that he doubted whether he should ever have the happiness of seeing Dr Maturin or his companions again.

  They did not see him again, and the weeks flowed by in such a calm monotony that presently the charged ampullae came to seem absurd.

  The long, even days were marked by a steady thumping, by the whistles of foremen, by the distant crash of falling masonry and the cries of workmen as they demolished parts of the ancient building out of sight; the nights were perfectly calm, with never a sound but the murmur of the city like a distant sea and the deep bell of St Théodule's telling the hour. No hint of footsteps overhead, no sound from either side. They might have been alone in that great tower: they might even have been at sea, as far as their isolation was concerned; and there was something nautical about their small living-space and in the way they became so soon acquainted with it. On the other hand, the quality of their food was not nautical at all, oh far, far from it.

  From that very first cup of coffee, the widow Lehideux gave the utmost satisfaction; her meals quickly became part of their daily pattern, and their chief diversion. She was very willing to do her best and she sent little beautifully-written, badly-spelt notes with suggestions according to the state of the market; and to these Stephen replied with comments on the last dish and recommendations, even receipts, for the next. 'It is only a woman's cookery, to be sure,' he said, toying with a chocolate mousse, 'and I do not know that I should trust her with game; but within these wide limits, how very good it is! She must be a knowing old soul, with great experience, no doubt in excellent service before the Revolution. Perhaps something of a slut: your amiable slut makes the best of cooks.'

  Their daily life, though confined and dull, might have been very much more disagreeable. It quickly assumed an ordered shape: Jack did not exactly organize them into watches, but he showed them how the place could be brought to something like naval cleanliness with nothing but the most primitive means and a mere three sweepings in the course of the day. His pupils were sluggish, inept, reluctant, even sullen at times, and they particularly disliked hanging their blankets and their pallet-beds from Jagiello's window, piling all the sparse furniture into a pyramid, and swilling the floor before breakfast; but his moral force, his conviction that this alone was right, overcame them, and the rooms grew inoffensive at least, so much so that the former prisoner's tame mouse became uneas
y and disappeared for three days. It lived behind the locked door in Jack's room and it came out of its hole in time for their first breakfast: though hesitant and confused at finding its friend gone and strangers sitting at the familiar table, it had accepted a piece of croissant and a little coffee held out at arm's length in a spoon; it sat with them while they discussed the methods of dealing with the surrounding filth, and all seemed well until the unfortunate orgy of scrubbing. The mouse did come back in time, however, and Stephen noticed with concern that it was gravid: he ordered cream—cream was eminently medicinal in pregnancy.

  It did not need the mouse nor her condition to bring Diana to his mind; she was there a great deal of the time; but it did tend to bring these wandering thoughts—recollections of her in former days, riding over the English countryside with singular grace and spirit; images of her in India, at the Institut, in the streets of Paris—to a sharper focus. Diana would be well provided with cream. Would she also be provided with a lover, with a plurality of lovers? It was probable; he had scarcely known a time when it was not so, and the atmosphere of Paris was ideally suited to such things. Yet he found himself curiously unwilling to dwell on the subject; he preferred to think of the solitary huntress he had once known.

  Order and cleanliness were the first things in Jack's day, but they were very far from being uppermost in his mind. Their first dinner had not arrived, the floor was scarcely dry, before he was looking about for means of escape in spite of the sickness that had made the others insist upon his taking the one good bed, while Stephen urged him to return to it.

  Although the prospect was not encouraging—a sheer drop to the moat, an apparently impossible wall beyond it, and according to Stephen's recollection of a visit to the Temple in his youth, covered ways barring the moat on either hand, out of their sight—Jack found that others had been there before him: some patient hand had picked and picked at the setting of the bars in Jagiello's window, gnawing deeply but ineffectually into the stone; another had actually sawn through one of the twenty-four pieces of iron, hiding the cut with grease; indeed, an eye that searched with greater eagerness than any gaoler could find countless signs of their predecessors' passionate desire for freedom. Yet it seemed to him that most of them had set about it in the wrong way. Even if one had the tools one could not work on the bars without risk of detection; they could be seen from the judas-holes, and there was no telling when a patrol might come round: Rousseau and his mates wore list slippers, and they were rarely heard until the key was in the lock. The privy was far more promising: its projecting floor consisted of two spans of stone resting on corbels either side, with the necessary space between them; and if they could be removed the way was clear. The way down, at all events. Unfortunately they were built in the lavish medieval fashion, regardless of weight, and they were sealed into the masonry on either side with molten sulphur; but there was at least a possibility that they might be moved in time, and the discreet hanging that covered the entrance to the privy shielded the worker from view, providing all the time in the world. The difficulties would be uncommonly great however, and the place itself was very, very nasty; before exploring it farther he considered the door in the wall, the door used only by the mouse. A lever could work wonders with a door, even so massive an iron-bound, iron-studded door as this; but before working wonders it was as well to know where the door led. Stephen was of opinion that it might possibly open on to a spiral staircase in the thickness of the wall; the Templars had been much given to spiral staircases. But on the other hand it might only lead into other rooms like their own, and they would merely exchange one cage for another.