Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XVII. Doctors
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while Boisson rubbed my frozen feet with snow,
after having cut open my heavy mountain shoes
with his knife. The rescue party from Chamonix
having spent the whole morning in a fruitless
search for our bodies on the track of the
avalanche, found us all fast asleep on the floor of the
hut. The next day I was taken in a hay cart to
Geneva and put in the night express to Paris.
Professor Tillaux stood washing his hands
between two operations as I staggered into the
amphitheatre of Hôtel Dieu the next morning.
As they unwrapped the cotton wool round my
legs he stared at my feet, and so did I, they were
black as those of a negro.
“Sacré Suédois, where the devil do you come
from?” thundered the Professor.
He gave me an anxious look from his kind blue
eyes which made me feel quite ashamed of myself.
I said I had been having a rest cure in
Switzerland, I had had a misadventure on a mountain,
such as might happen to any tourist, I was very
sorry.
“Mais c’est lui,” shouted an interne, “pour
sûr c’est lui!” Taking a ‘Figaro’ from the
pocket of his blouse he began to read aloud a
telegram from Chamonix about the miraculous
escape of a foreigner who with his two guides had
been carried away by an avalanche on descending
Mont Blanc.
“Nom de tonnerre, nom de nom de nom!
Fiche moi la paix sacré Suédois, qu’est-ce que tu
viens faire ici, va-t-en à l’Asile St. Anne chez les
fous!”
“Allow me to demonstrate to you the skull of
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