The doctor was a man about forty years of age, robust, with every appearance of a strong character. In the buttonhole of the frock coat he wore was a red rosette, the decoration of some order. Confused and nervous as George was, he got a vague impression of the physician’s richly furnished office, with its bronzes, marbles and tapestries. The doctor signaled to the young man to be seated in the chair before his desk. George complied, and then, as he wiped away the perspiration from his forehead, stammered out a few words, explaining his errand. Of course, he said, it could not be true, but it was a man’s duty not to take any chances in such a matter. “I have not been a man of loose life,” he added; “I have not taken so many chances as other men.”
The doctor cut him short with the brief remark that one chance was all that was necessary. Instead of discussing such questions, he would make an examination. “We do not say positively in these cases until we have made a blood test. That is the one way to avoid the possibility of mistake.”
A drop of blood was squeezed out of George’s finger on to a little glass plate. The doctor retired to an adjoining room, and the victim sat alone in the office, deriving no enjoyment from the works of art which surrounded him, but feeling like a prisoner who sits in the dock with his life at stake while the jury deliberates.
The doctor returned, calm and impassive, and seated himself in his office-chair.
“Well, doctor?” asked George. He was trembling with terror.
“Well,” was the reply, “there is no doubt whatever.”
George wiped his forehead. He could not credit the words. “No doubt whatever? In what sense?”
“In the bad sense,” said the other.
He began to write a prescription, without seeming to notice how George turned page with terror. “Come,” he said, after a silence, “you must have known the truth pretty well.”
“No, no, sir!” exclaimed George.
“Well,” said the other, “you have syphilis.”
George was utterly stunned. “My God!” he exclaimed.
The doctor, having finished his prescription, looked up and observed his condition. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. Out of every seven men you meet upon the street, in society, or at the theater, there is at least one who has been in your condition. One out of seven—fifteen per cent!”
George was staring before him. He spoke low, as if to himself. “I know what I am going to do.”
“And I know also,” said the doctor, with a smile. “There is your prescription. You are going to take it to the drugstore and have it put up.”
George took the prescription, mechanically, but whispered, “No, sir.”
“Yes, sir, you are going to do as everybody else does.”
“No, because my situation is not that of everybody else. I know what I am going to do.”
Said the doctor: “Five times out of ten, in the chair where you are sitting, people talk like that, perfectly sincerely. Each one believes himself more unhappy than all the others; but after thinking it over, and listening to me, they understand that this disease is a companion with whom one can live. Just as in every household, one gets along at the cost of mutual concessions, that’s all. Come, sir, I tell you again, there is nothing about it that is not perfectly ordinary, perfectly natural, perfectly common; it is an accident which can happen to any one. It is a great mistake that people speak if this as the ‘French Disease,’ for there is none which is more universal. Under the picture of this disease, addressing myself to those who follow the oldest profession in the world, I would write the famous phrase: ‘Here is your master. It is, it was, or it must be.’”
George was putting the prescription into the outside pocket of his coat, stupidly, as if he did not know what he was doing. “But, sir,” he exclaimed, “I should have been spared!”
“Why?” inquired the other. “Because you are a man of position, because you are rich? Look around you, sir. See these works of art in my room. Do you imagine that such things have been presented to me by chimney-sweeps?”
“But, Doctor,” cried George, with a moan, “I have never been a libertine. There was never any one, you understand me, never any one could have been more careful in his pleasures. If I were to tell you that in all my life I have only had two mistresses, what would you answer to that?”
“I would answer, that a single one would have been sufficient to bring you to me.”
“No, sir!” cried George. “It could not have been either of those women.” He went on to tell the doctor about his first mistress, and then about Lizette. Finally he told about Henriette, how much he adored her. He could really use such a word—he loved her most tenderly. She was so good—and he had thought himself so lucky!
As he went on, he could hardly keep from going to pieces. “I had everything,” he exclaimed, “everything a man needed! All who knew me envied me. And then I had to let those fellows drag me off to that miserable supper-party! And now here I am! My future is ruined, my whole existence poisoned! What is to become of me? Everybody will avoid me—I shall be a pariah, a leper!”
He paused, and then in sudden wild grief exclaimed, “Come, now! Would it not be better that I should take myself out of the way? At least, I should not suffer any more. You see that there could not be any one more unhappy than myself—not any one, I tell you, sir, not any one!” Completely overcome, he began to weep in his handkerchief.
The doctor got up, and went to him. “You must be a man,” he said, “and not cry like a child.”
“But sir,” cried the young man, with tears running down his cheeks, “if I had led a wild life, if I had passed my time in dissipation with chorus girls, then I could understand it. Then I would say that I had deserved it.”
The doctor exclaimed with emphasis, “No, no! You would not say it. However, it is of no matter—go on.”
“I tell you that I would say it. I am honest, and I would say that I had deserved it. But no, I have worked, I have been a regular grind. And now, when I think of the shame that is in store for me, the disgusting things, the frightful catastrophes to which I am condemned—”
“What is all this you are telling me?” asked the doctor, laughing.
“Oh, I know, I know!” cried the other, and repeated what his friend had told him about the man in a wheel-chair. “And they used to call me handsome Raoul! That was my name—handsome Raoul!”
“Now, my dear sir,” said the doctor, cheerfully, “wipe your eyes one last time, blow your nose, put your handkerchief into your pocket, and hear me dry-eyed.”
George obeyed mechanically. “But I give you fair warning,” he said, “you are wasting your time.”
“I tell you—” began the other.
“I know exactly what you are going to tell me!” cried George.
“Well, in that case, there is nothing more for you to do here—run along.”
“Since I am here,” said the patient submissively, “I will hear you.”
“Very well, then. I tell you that if you have the will and the perseverance, none of the things you fear will happen to you.”
“Of course, it is your duty to tell me that.”
“I will tell you that there are one hundred thousand like you in Paris, alert, and seemingly well. Come, take what you were just saying—wheel-chairs. One doesn’t see so many of them.”
“No, that’s true,” said George.
“And besides,” added the doctor, “a good many people who ride in them are not there for the cause you think. There is no more reason why you should be the victim of a catastrophe than any of the one hundred thousand. The disease is serious, nothing more.”
“You admit that it is a serious disease?” argued George.
“Yes.”
“One of the most serious?”
“Yes, but you have the good fortune—”
“The GOOD fortune?”
“Relatively, if you please. You have the good fortune to be infected with one of the diseases over which we have the most certain control.”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed George, “but the remedies are worse than the disease.”
“You deceive yourself,” replied the other.
“You are trying to make me believe that I can be cured?”
“You can be.”
“And that I am not condemned?”
“I swear it to you.”
“You are not deceiving yourself, you are not deceiving me? Why, I was told—”
The doctor laughed, contemptuously. “You were told, you were told! I’ll wager that you know the laws of the Chinese concerning party-walls.”
“Yes, naturally,” said George. “But I don’t see what they have to do with it.”
“Instead of teaching you such things,” was the reply, “it would have been a great deal better to have taught you about the nature and cause of diseases of this sort. Then you would have known how to avoid the contagion. Such knowledge should be spread abroad, for it is the most important knowledge in the world. It should be found in every newspaper.”
This remark gave George something of a shock, for his father had owned a little paper in the provinces, and he had a sudden vision of the way subscribers would have fallen off, if he had printed even so much as the name of this vile disease.
“And yet,” pursued the doctor, “you publish romances about adultery!”
“Yes,” said George, “that’s what the readers want.”
“They don’t want the truth about venereal diseases,” exclaimed the other. “If they knew the full truth, they would no longer think that adultery was romantic and interesting.”
He went on to give his advice as to the means of avoiding such diseases. There was really but one rule. It was: To love but one woman, to take her as a virgin, and to love her so much that she would never deceive you. “Take that from me,” added the doctor, “and teach it to your son, when you have one.”
George’s attention was caught by this last sentence.
“You mean that I shall be able to have children?” he cried.
“Certainly,” was the reply.
“Healthy children?”
“I repeat it to you; if you take care of yourself properly for a long time, conscientiously, you have little to fear.”
“That’s certain?”
“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred.”
George felt as if he had suddenly emerged from a dungeon. “Why, then,” he exclaimed, “I shall be able to marry!”
“You will be able to marry,” was the reply.
“You are not deceiving me? You would not give me that hope, you would not expose me? How soon will I be able to marry?”
“In three or four years,” said the doctor.
“What!” cried George in consternation. “In three or four years? Not before?”
“Not before.”
“How is that? Am I going to be sick all that time? Why, you told me just now—”
Said the doctor: “The disease will no longer be dangerous to you, yourself—but you will be dangerous to others.”
“But,” the young man cried, in despair, “I am to be married a month from now.”
“That is impossible.”
“But I cannot do any differently. The contract is ready! The banns have been published! I have given my word!”
“Well, you are a great one!” the doctor laughed. “Just now you were looking for your revolver! Now you want to be married within the month.”
“But, Doctor, it is necessary!”
“But I forbid it.”
“As soon as I knew that the disease is not what I imagined, and that I could be cured, naturally I didn’t want to commit suicide. And as soon as I make up my mind not to commit suicide, I have to take up my regular life. I have to keep my engagements; I have to get married.”
“No,” said the doctor.
“Yes, yes!” persisted George, with blind obstinacy. “Why, Doctor, if I didn’t marry it would be a disaster. You are talking about something you don’t understand. I, for my part—it is not that I am anxious to be married. As I told you, I had almost a second family. Lizette’s little brothers adored me. But it is my aunt, an old maid; and, also, my mother is crazy about the idea. If I were to back out now, she would die of chagrin. My aunt would disinherit me, and she is the one who has the family fortune. Then, too, there is my father-in-law, a regular dragoon for his principles—severe, violent. He never makes a joke of serious things, and I tell you it would cost me dear, terribly dear. And, besides, I have given my word.”
“You must take back your word.”
“You still insist?” exclaimed George, in despair. “But then, suppose that it were possible, how could I take back my signature which I put at the bottom of the deed? I have pledged myself to pay in two months for the attorney’s practice I have purchased!”
“Sir,” said the doctor, “all these things—”
“You are going to tell me that I was lacking in prudence, that I should never have disposed of my wife’s dowry until after the honeymoon!”
“Sir,” said the doctor, again, “all these considerations are foreign to me. I am a physician, and nothing but a physician, and I can only tell you this: If you marry before three or four years, you will be a criminal.”
George broke out with a wild exclamation. “No sir, you are not merely a physician! You are also a confessor! You are not merely a scientist; and it is not enough for you that you observe me as you would some lifeless thing in your laboratory, and say, ‘You have this; science says that; now go along with you.’ All my existence depends upon you. It is your duty to listen to me, because when you know everything you will understand me, and you will find some way to cure me within a month.”
“But,” protested the doctor, “I wear myself out telling you that such means do not exist. I shall not be certain of your cure, as much as any one can be certain, in less than three or four years.”
George was almost beside himself. “I tell you you must find some means! Listen to me, sir—if I don’t get married I don’t get the dowry! And will you tell me how I can pay the notes I have signed?”
“Oh,” said the doctor, dryly, “if that is the question, it is very simple—I will give you a plan to get out of the affair. You will go and get acquainted with some rich man; you will do everything you can to gain his confidence; and when you have succeeded, you will plunder him.”
George shook his head. “I am not in any mood for joking.”
“I am not joking,” replied his adviser. “Rob that man, assassinate him even—that would be no worse crime than you would commit in taking a young girl in good health in order to get a portion of her dowry, when at the same time you would have to expose her to the frightful consequences of the disease which you would give her.”
“Frightful consequences?” echoed George.
“Consequences of which death would not be the most frightful.”
“But, sir, you were saying to me just now—”
“Just now I did not tell you everything. Even reduced, suppressed a little by our remedies, the disease remains mysterious, menacing, and in its sum, sufficiently grave. So it would be an infamy to expose your fiancee in order to avoid an inconvenience, however great that might be.”
But George was still not to be convinced. Was it certain that this misfortune would befall Henriette, even with the best attention?
Said the other: “I do not wish to lie to you. No, it is not a............