Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XVII. Doctors
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Hôpital St. Louis, would have chopped off both
my legs on the spot and thrown them on the top
of some stumps of arms and legs, half-a-dozen
ovaries and uteruses and various tumours, all in
a heap on the floor of his amphitheatre besmeared
with blood like a slaughterhouse. Then, his
enormous hands still red with my blood, he would
have plunged his knife with the dexterity of
a conjurer into his next victim, half conscious
under insufficient anæsthesia, while half-a-dozen
others, screaming with terror on their brancards,
were awaiting their turn of torture. The
massacre en masse at an end, Péan would wipe the
sweat from his forehead, rub a few spots of blood
and pus from his white waistcoat and dresscoat
—he always operated in evening dress—and with
a: Voilà pour aujourd’hui, Messieurs! he would
rush out of the amphitheatre to his pompous
landau and drive full speed to his private clinic
in Rue de la Santé to cut open the abdomens of
half-a-dozen women driven there by a gigantic
réclame like helpless sheep to the slaughterhouse
of La Villette.
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