"Whiskey in any form would be bad for him," the surgeon answered
evasively.

But to himself he kept saying: "The man was a drunkard--he was a
drunkard."




CHAPTER XI

THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN

M. Marcel Loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid of
his brother and Portugais. The man under the instruments, not wholly
insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened
with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness.
When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, sleep
came down on the bed--a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed to fill
the room with peace. For hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, now and
again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the forehead with
his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came forward to where
Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire.

"It is all right," he said. "Let him sleep as long as he will." He
turned again to the bed. "I wish I could stay to see the end of it.
Is there no chance, Prosper?" he added to the priest.

"Impossible, Marcel. You must have sleep. You have a seventy-mile drive