Little Poems in Prose

only—a detail which Régnier failed to observe— two or three portraits of famous doctors hung from the walls. How I was petted! There was a big fire, hot wine, cigars; and while offering me these good things, and herself lighting a cigar, the little buffoon said to me, “Make yourself quite at home, dear boy; this will remind you of the hospital and the happy days of youth. Ah, where did you get this white hair? You were not like that when you were house-surgeon under L——, not so long ago, either. I remem- ber that it was you who helped him in major operations.—There, if you like, was a man who loved cutting, trimming and lopping! It was you who looked after his instruments, his thread and his sponges, and the operation completed, how proudly he would say, looking at his watch, ‘Five minutes, gentlemen.’ Oh yes, I go everywhere. I know these gentlemen very well.” A moment later she addressed me more familiarly, resuming her previous manner, and said, “You are a doctor, aren’t you, my dear?” This unintelligible refrain made me leap to my feet. “No!” I cried furiously. “A surgeon, then?”