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Updated: June 20, 2025
That is what the manager, or, as he had christened himself, the register of deaths, Pondevèz, was wondering one morning after breakfast, as he sat opposite Madame Polge's venerable curls, taking a hand at that lady's favorite game. "Yes, my dear Madame Polge, what is to become of us? Things cannot go on long like this. Jenkins won't give in, the children are as obstinate as mules.
"To be sure to be sure," said Jenkins, "it's the reflection of the pond. Just come and look, Monsieur le Secrétaire." And he led him to the window to point out the great sheet of water in which the willows dipped their branches, while Madame Polge hastily closed the curtains of his cradle upon the little Wallachian's never-ending dream.
Madame Polge whom Jenkins always called "our intelligent overseer," and whom he had in fact placed there to oversee everything, the manager first of all was not so austere as her duties would lead one to believe, and readily yielded to the charm of a petit verre or two of "right cognac," or to a game of bezique for fifteen hundred points.
Polge has donned her green silk dress, the director a costume somewhat less neglige than usual, but of which the simplicity excluded all idea of premeditation. The Departmental Secretary may come. And here he is. He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a splendid coach with the red and gold livery of the Nabob. Feigning the deepest astonishment, Pondevez rushes forward to meet his visitors.
Poor Pompon, in dire perplexity, tugged at his beard and gnawed the ends of it. "Come, come," he said abruptly to Madame Polge, whose long face had grown still longer between her false curls. "There is only one thing for us to do. We must clear out the infirmary, carry all the sick ones into the dormitory. They'll be no better nor worse for spending half a day there.
Polge has prepared a little luncheon. The cellar of Bethlehem is well stocked.
There's no gainsaying it, they'll all pass out of our hands. There's that little Wallachian I mark the king, Madame Polge who may die any minute. Poor little brat, just think, it's three days since anything went into his stomach. I don't care what Jenkins says; you can't improve children, like snails, by starving them. It's a distressing thing not to be able to save a single one.
At the head of the establishment was one of the most skilful men in the profession, M. Pondevèz, a graduate of the Paris hospitals; and associated with him, to take more direct charge of the children, a trustworthy woman, Madame Polge. Then there were maids and seamstresses and nurses.
Yet, God knows, the affair had been started and carried out with the greatest enthusiasm to the last details, with as much money and as large a staff as were requisite. At its head, one of the most skilful of practitioners, M. Pondevez, who had studied in the Paris hospitals; and by his side, to attend to the more intimate needs of the children, a trusty matron, Mme. Polge.
Jenkins and the manager, noticing the unfavorable impression produced upon their guests by the visit to the dormitory, tried to enliven the situation by talking very loud, with a good-humored, frank, well-satisfied manner. Jenkins shook hands warmly with the overseer. "Well, Madame Polge, are our little pupils getting on?" "As you see, Monsieur le Docteur," she replied, pointing to the beds.
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