"Glory be to the Lord, he's saved!" cried one of the waiters, a devout
Irishman.
"Ciel! he speaks! he moves! he lives! mon frère!" cried the little
Frenchwoman, going to him.
"Ah, murderers! bandits! you've scalded me to death! I'll have you all
before the commissaire!"
"He scolds! he threatens! he swears! he gets well! mon frère!" cried
the old woman, busying herself to change his clothes and put on his
flannel nightgown. They then tucked him up warmly in bed and put
bottles of hot water all around, to keep up this newly stimulated
circulation.
At that moment Dr. Rocke came in, put his hand into the bath-tub and
could scarcely repress a cry of pain and of horror--the water scalded
his fingers! What must it have done to the sick man?
"Good heavens, madam! I did not tell you to parboil your patient!"
exclaimed Traverse, speaking to the old woman. Traverse was shocked to
find how perilously his orders had been exceeded.
"Eh bien, Monsieur! he lives! he does well! voilà mon frère!" exclaimed
the little old woman.
It was true: the accidental "boiling bath," as it might almost be
called, had effected what perhaps no other means in the world could--a
restored circulation.
The disease was broken up, and the convalescence of the patient was
rapid. And as Traverse kept his own secret concerning the accidental
high temperature of that bath, which every one considered a fearful and
successful experiment, the fame of Dr. Rocke spread over the whole city
and country.
He would soon have made a fortune in New Orleans, had not the hand of
destiny beckoned him elsewhere. It happened thus: The old Frenchman whose life Traverse had, partly by accident and
partly by design, succeeded in saving, comprehended perfectly well how
narrow his escape from death had been, and attributed his restoration
solely to the genius, skill and boldness of his young physician, and
was grateful accordingly with all a Frenchman's noisy demonstration.
He called Traverse his friend, his deliverer, his son.
One day, as soon as he found himself strong enough to think of pursuing
his journey, he called his "son" into the room and explained to him
that he, Doctor Pierre St. Jean, was the proprietor of a private insane
asylum, very exclusive, very quiet, very aristocratic, indeed,
receiving none but patients of the highest rank; that this retreat was
situated on the wooded banks of a charming lake in one of the most
healthy and beautiful neighborhoods of East Feliciana; that he had
originally come down to the city to engage the services of some young
physician of talent as his assistant, and finally, that he would be
delighted, enraptured if "his deliverer, his friend, his son," would
accept the post.