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The Devil
A surgeon obtained, it was found that Welden had a fracture of the ankle, a fracture of the collarbone and a fracture of the skull.
The surgeon, Dr. Binet-Valmer, thought the first fracture trite; the second, stupid. Had there been but these he would have abandoned Welden to other hands. But the third fracture had the high merit of interesting this man whose country-seat was near by and who was one of the lights of French science.
“He won’t die today,” he absently announced.
As for the rest, a phrase which, for the benefit of the ignoramuses about him, he employed to designate the cerebral cortex—that marvellous pulp behind the forehead through which the objective changes of the external world are, by some undiscovered witchery, converted into the subjective changes of consciousness—concerning that magical mystery and the fate of it, he had an opinion which he kept to himself.
The examination concluded, he addressed the Comte de Dol precisely as though the poor man were a lackey. He did not regard him as such, he considered him an insect. The Earl of Ferrers and the Honourable Mull Cantire were to him two insects more. Welden was not an insect or even an entity, he was a Case.
“An ambulance,” he ordered.
But de Dol shook his head. The fractures had occurred on his grounds, to a guest of his bidding, and, with that decent sentiment of what decency is which the Arabs discovered, he had Welden tended in his house.
Through the enigmatic laws of life any kindness is repaid in pain. De Dol never actively regretted the charity, though certainly had he wished he might have, for when the report of it all had gone abroad, a woman, very modishly attired, emerged from a cab at the perron and demanded to be taken instantly to where Welden was.
Obviously the lady appertained to that class which the French describe as the top of the basket. But de Dol’s footman knew his business.
“Perfectly, madame,” he replied. “Will madame give herself the trouble to pass this way?”
Whereupon he showed her into the room hung with pictures of sporting scenes and horses.
From the threshold he added: “Will madame say whom I am to announce?”
“The Duchess of Malakoff.”
The man bowed and vanished. Presently he returned, ushering de Dol.
“But! But!” exclaimed the latter, shuffling in, affecting to seem pleased yet succeeding so meagrely that, to cover his embarrassment, he raised and bent over the gloved hand which Sally put out, wondering all the time what the devil he could do with her.
Sally told him. In her sweetest voice she said: “Take me to him, please.”
De Dol, sparring for wind, protested, “Duchess, he is unconscious.”
Sally motioned at the door. “I know. I have brought a trained nurse. We will take care of him together.”
De Dol, sparring still, again protested. “Duchess, I pray you, consider your position.”
Sally lifted her little chin. “He considered that. He fought for me. What I consider is his condition.”
But now de Dol had got his wind. For a moment, thoughtfully, with kind, honest eyes he looked in hers. Then he went at her.
“Duchess, believe me, never intentionally have I refused a lady anything. It is regrettable to be obliged to refuse you. But your husband is my friend. He has been gravely injured by this gentleman. If you will not consider your position, I pray you consider mine. Can you not see that it would be intolerable were I to do as you ask?”
Sally, floored but not defeated, leaned from the chair in which she sat, flung her arms on the table beside her, sank her head there, and audibly began to cry.
Men who face death unflinchingly, quail at a woman’s tears. What is worse women know it. Sally used hers much as though they constituted a stick and de Dol, bruised and belaboured, cursed himself that he had not, at the start, invented some ukase of the surgeon to which she must unquestionably bow. Yet, after all, he reflected, the surgeon certainly would pronunciamento, and that edict he could hold in reserve should other tactics which then occurred to him, fail.
Timorously he approached and gingerly, with one finger, touched her.
At the attention, Sally’s slight frame shook.
“Duchess, calm yourself. Calm yourself, I pray you. If you will but calm yourself, there is a little idea that has come to me which may result in what you wish. Will you let me tell you? Will you?”
But Sally felt now too securely intrenched to yield to what, perhaps, were mere treacherous cajolements. She continued to weep or appeared to, yet, apparently also in a fashion more broken, leaving invitingly between the sobs increasing intervals during which he could speak and which, if what he said were not agreeable, she, with renewed activity, could curtail.
Warily but boldly he utilised one such pause.
“Duchess, let us see. Be reasonable enough to listen. From the moment when this gentleman was carried from that divan to where he now is, I have not seen him, no one has, save the surgeon, the aids and infirmières, nor, until he is conscious do I believe that the surgeon will permit anyone to see him, no one, not even the man’s own mother were she here. If, therefore, I can not do as you would wish me, it is not merely for your sake and my sake, it is for his. But when he is better, when such danger as there is has been passed, enfin! in a little while, I, I who speak to you, will not be here. Then who comes and who goes, I do not know. I do not inquire. It is my intendant who has charge of such things. Do you appreciate, Duchess? My intendant has not the honour of your acquaintance; he is not a friend of the duke. Let us suppose then that of a morning a lady arrives and says: ‘I
