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Updated: June 26, 2025
I wanted him to live long enough to show him his work accomplished, to realize all his hopes, to give expression to the only need for gratitude that ever filled my heart, to quench a fire that burns in me to this day. "Bourgeat, my second father, died in my arms," Desplein went on, after a pause, visibly moved.
It was a greenish structure; the ground floor occupied by a furniture-dealer, while each floor seemed to shelter a different and independent form of misery. Throwing up his arm with a vehement gesture, Desplein exclaimed: "I lived up there for two years." "I know; Arthez lived there; I went up there almost every day during my first youth; we used to call it then the pickle-jar of great men!
At last, seven years later, after the Revolution of 1830, when the mob invaded the Archbishop's residence, when Republican agitators spurred them on to destroy the gilt crosses which flashed like streaks of lightning in the immensity of the ocean of houses; when Incredulity flaunted itself in the streets, side by side with Rebellion, Bianchon once more detected Desplein going into Saint-Sulpice.
The great Desplein, who attended Chardon in his last illness, saw him die in convulsions of rage. The secret of the army surgeon's ambition lay in his passionate love for his wife, the last survivor of the family of Rubempre, saved as by a miracle from the guillotine in 1793. He had gained time by declaring that she was pregnant, a lie told without the girl's knowledge or consent.
Roubaud had been in Montegnac about eighteen months, and was much liked there. But this young pupil of Desplein and the successors of Cabanis did not believe in Catholicism. He lived in a state of profound indifference as to religion, and did not desire to come out of it. The rector was in despair.
"Thank you!" said Bianchon. "Old curmudgeon!" said Rastignac, laughing. "Come do not be so common, do like your friend Desplein; be a Baron, a Knight of Saint-Michael; become a peer of France, and marry your daughters to dukes." "I! May the five hundred thousand devils " "Come, come! Can you be superior only in medicine? Really, you distress me..."
Desplein pointed to the sixth floor of one of the houses looking like obelisks, of which the narrow door opens into a passage with a winding staircase at the end, with windows appropriately termed "borrowed lights" or, in French, jours de souffrance.
They were talking as doctors usually talk among themselves when the farce of a consultation is over. "He is a dead man," quoth Dr. Haudry. "He had not a month to live," added Desplein, "unless a miracle takes place." These were the words overheard by the hairdresser. Like all hairdressers, he kept up a good understanding with his customers' servants.
"If the characters of cerebral congestion are well ascertained, we have here, considering the patient's age, a sufficient cause of death," observed Desplein, looking at the enormous mass of material. "Did he sup here?" asked Bianchon. "No," said Corentin; "he came here in great haste from the Boulevard, and found his daughter ruined " "That was the poison if he loved his daughter," said Bianchon.
You will, in a few minutes, have the opinion of Monsieur Desplein and Monsieur Bianchon, for whom I have sent to examine the daughter of my best friend; she is in a worse plight than he, though he is dead." "I have no need of those gentlemen's assistance in the exercise of my duty," said the medical officer. "Well, well," thought Corentin. "Let us have no clashing, monsieur," he said.
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