From time to time Brisset, the
sole speaker, remarked, "Good! just so!" as Bianchon pointed out the
existence of each desperate symptom. Cameristus seemed to be deep in
meditation; Maugredie looked like a comic author, studying two queer
characters with a view to reproducing them faithfully upon the stage.
There was deep, unconcealed distress, and grave compassion in Horace
Bianchon's face. He had been a doctor for too short a time to be
untouched by suffering and unmoved by a deathbed; he had not learned
to keep back the sympathetic tears that obscure a man's clear vision
and prevent him from seizing like the general of an army, upon the
auspicious moment for victory, in utter disregard of the groans of
dying men.
After spending about half an hour over taking in some sort the measure
of the patient and the complaint, much as a tailor measures a young
man for a coat when he orders his wedding outfit, the authorities
uttered several commonplaces, and even talked of politics. Then they
decided to go into Raphael's study to exchange their ideas and frame
their verdict.
"May I not be present during the discussion, gentlemen?" Valentin had
asked them, but Brisset and Maugredie protested against this, and, in
spite of their patient's entreaties, declined altogether to deliberate
in his presence.
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