Doctor Griffon was a tall, thin man, pallid and completely bald, except two tufts of thin black hair, carefully brushed back on the poll, and flattened on the temples. His countenance, wrinkled and furrowed by the fatigues of study, was calm, intelligent, and reflective. Profoundly learned, of great experience, and a skilful practitioner, first surgeon at a civil hospital, where we shall again encounter him, Doctor Griffon had but one defect, that of completely abstracting himself from the patient, and only considering the disease. Young or old, rich or poor, was no matter,--he only thought of medical fact, more or less remarkable, which the subject presented. For him there was nothing but subjects.
"What a lovely face! How beautiful she is in spite of this frightful paleness!" said M. de Saint-Remy. "Did you ever see milder or more expressive features, my dear doctor? And so young--so young!"
"Age is no consequence," said the doctor, abruptly, "no more than the presence of water in the lungs, which was formerly thought fatal. It was a gross error, which the admirable experiments of Goodwin--the famous Goodwin--incontestably detected and exposed."
"But it is a fact," replied M. Griffon, absorbed by the love of his art. "To detect the presence of any foreign liquid in the lungs, Goodwin plunged some cats and dogs several times into tubs filled with ink for some seconds, taking them out alive, and then, after a time, dissected the animals. Well, he was convinced from the dissection that the ink had penetrated the lungs, and that the presence of this liquid in the respiratory organs had not caused the death of the subject."
The count knew the doctor was a worthy creature at heart, but that his mad passion for science made him often appear harsh and cruel.
"Have you any hope?" inquired M. de Saint-Remy, impatiently.
"The extremities of the subject are very cold," said the doctor; "there is but very slight hope."
"Ah, poor child! To die at that age is indeed terrible!"
"Pupil fixed--dilated!" observed the doctor, impassive, and pushing up the frigid eyelid of Fleur-de-Marie with his forefinger.
"What a singular man!" exclaimed the comte, almost with indignation. "One would suppose you pitiless, and yet I have seen you watch by my bedside for nights together. Had I been your brother, you could not have been more generously devoted to me."