Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XVII. Doctors
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a Lapland bear,” he went on while he was
dressing the ugly cut on the top of my skull. “A
knock-down blow that would have stunned an
elephant but not a fracture, not even a commotion
cérébrale! Why take the long journey to
Chamonix, why don’t you climb up to the top of the
tower of Notre Dame and throw yourself down
in the square under our windows, there is no
danger as long as you fall on your head!”
I was always delighted when the Professor
chaffed me as it was a sure sign I was in his good
graces. I wanted to drive straight to Avenue de
Villiers but Tillaux thought I would be more
comfortable for a couple of days in a separate
room in the hospital. I was surely his worst
pupil, still he had taught me enough of surgery
to make me realize that he meant to amputate
me. For five days he came to look at my legs,
three times a day, on the sixth day I was on my
sofa in Avenue de Villiers all danger over. The
punishment was severe in any case, I was laid up
for six weeks, I got so nervous that I had to write
a book—don’t be afraid, it is out of print. I
hobbled about on two sticks for another month,
then I was all right again.
I tremble at the thought of what would have
happened to me had I fallen into the hands of one
of the other leading surgeons in Paris in those
days. Old Papa Richet in the other wing of
Hôtel Dieu would surely have made me die of
gangrene or blood poisoning, it was his speciality,
it was rampant all over his medieval clinic. The
famous Professor Péan, the terrible butcher of
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