The Girl from Paris
Page 39
Juliana had raised her voice to its fullest extent in this impassioned appeal, and her words penetrated to the outer fringe of the crowd, which had come along mainly out of curiosity. She heard some encouraging cries of agreement.
“Ah, that is true! We can’t afford to waste a doctor. There are plenty of sick people in this town!” “Let him cure my Henri, who has had the suppuration on his leg for so long.” “My daughter’s quinsy!” “My father’s backache!” “Do not hang the doctor!” they all began to roar.
“Are you a doctor?” demanded a man who carried an enormous smith’s hammer.
The victim’s eyes met those of Juliana for a moment, and a curious spasm passed across his countenance; then he said firmly, “Certainly I am a doctor! If you have any sick people who need healing, I shall be happy to look after them. Just find me a room that will do as a surgery, and provide me with the materials I shall ask for.”
This suggestion proved so popular with the crowd that in five minutes the man was accommodated with a small parlor of the same inn where Juliana and her father were lodged. A large queue of persons instantly lined up, demanding attention, but before he would even listen to their symptoms, the gray-suited man demanded supplies of various medicaments, such as rhubarb, borage, wine, brandy, oil, egg white, orris root, antimony, cat’s urine, wood ash, and oak leaves. Some of these were not available, but others were supplied as circumstances permitted. He also asked for the services of “the young lady in brown” as a nurse and helper.
“You have gone halfway to saving my life, mademoiselle,” he muttered as the crowd chattered and jostled in the passageway outside the door. “Now do me the kindness to finish your task and help save the other half.”
“How do you mean, monsieur?”
“Help me devise some remedies for these ignorant peasants!”
“But—are you not, then—?”
“Hush! I am no more a doctor than that piebald horse across the street. But with your intelligent assistance and a little credulity from our friends outside, I hope that we may brush through.”
The next hour was one of the most terrifying and yet exhilarating that Juliana had ever lived through.
“What are your symptoms, Citizen?” she would inquire as each grimy, limping, hopeful figure came through the door. “Sore throat—difficulty in swallowing—pains in the knee—bad memory—trouble in passing water—”
Then she would hold a solemn discussion with the gray-coated man—he told her in a low voice and what she had now identified as a Dutch accent that his name was Frederick Welcker.
“Sore throat—hmm, hmm—white of egg with rosemary beaten into it—take that now, and suck the juice of three lemons at four-hourly intervals. Pound up a kilo of horseradish with olive oil, and apply half internally, half externally. A little cognac will not come amiss. Next?
“Toothache? Chew a dozen cloves, madame, and drink a liter of cognac.
“A bad toe? Wash it with vinegar, mademoiselle, and wrap a hank of cobwebs round it.”
Combining scraps of such treatments as she could remember having received herself in her rare illnesses with some of old Signora Fontini’s nostrums, remedies she had culled from The Vindication of King Charles I, and various ingenious but not always practicable suggestions provided by Herr Welcker, Juliana was able to supply each patient with something that at least, for the time being, sent him away hopeful and satisfied.
“Now what happens?” she asked breathlessly as the last sufferer (a boy with severely broken chilblains) hobbled away smelling of the goose grease that had been applied to his afflicted members.
“Now, mademoiselle, I have a moment’s breathing space. And, with the French mob, that is often sufficient. They are fickle and changeable; in a couple of hours they will have forgotten me and discovered some other victim,” replied Herr Welcker, washing off the goose grease in a finger bowl and fastidiously settling his white wristbands and stock.
“But what if the sick people are not all cured by tomorrow? They will come back and accuse us of being impostors,” pointed out Juliana, who was beginning to suffer from reaction, and to feel that her actions had been overimpulsive and probably very foolish indeed. What had she got herself into? Her despondency was increased when her father burst hastily into the room, exclaiming, “Juliana! There you are! I have been half over the village, searching for you—I was at my wits’ end with terror! Never—never do such a thing again! Rash—hasty—shatterbrained—”
“I am sorry, Papa! I am truly sorry!” Juliana was very near to tears, but Herr Welcker intervened promptly.
“I regret, sir, but I must beg to disagree with you! Your daughter’s cool and well-thought intercession indubitably saved my life—for which I cannot help but be heartily grateful—and was, furthermore, the most consummate piece of quick thinking and shrewd acting that it has been my good fortune to witness! Thanks to her, I am now in a fair way to get back to England, instead of hanging from a withered bough on that dismal scrawny growth they are pleased to call the Liberty Tree.”
“England?” said Juliana in surprise. “I thought you were a Hollander, sir?”
“So I am, but England is my country of residence.”
Charles Elphinstone brightened a little at these words.
“If you are bound for England, sir—as we are, likewise—perhaps you can give me information as to what ships are sailing from St.-Malo?”
Herr Welcker looked at him with a wry grin.
“Ships from St.-Malo? You are hoping for a ship? I fear, sir, your hopes are due to be dashed. No ships are sailing at present. Those wretched devils of Frogs have closed the port.”
“Then—” gasped Juliana’s father. “My god! We are trapped! Fixed in France! Heaven help us, what can we do?”
He tottered to a chair and sank on it, looking haggardly at the other two occupants of the small room. But Herr Welcker, strangely enough, did not seem too dispirited.
“Well, I’ll tell you!” he said. “Damme if I haven’t got a soft spot for you two, after the young lady stood up for me with such spunk. Pluck to the backbone you are, my dear. I’ll take you both with me—though,” he added puzzlingly, “it will mean throwing out some of the Gobelins, half a dozen of the Limoges, and most of the wallpaper too, I shouldn’t wonder. Devilish bulky stuff!”
“Sir? I don’t understand you.”
“Walls have ears,” said Herr Welcker. “Let us all take a stroll out of the town. And if you have any luggage that can be carried in a handbag, fetch it along. The rest will have to remain here.”
“What?” gasped Mr. Elphinstone. “Leave my books? My Horace—my Livy—my Montefiume’s Apologia—Dieudonné’s History of the Persian Empire in fourteen volumes? Leave them behind?”
Herr Welcker shrugged.
“Stay with them if you please,” he said. “Otherwise it’s bring what you can carry. I daresay the innkeeper will look after your things faithfully enough if you leave a few francs in a paper on top—you can come back for the books when the war’s over! Who wants a lot of plaguey books? The Frogs don’t, for sure. Unlettered, to a man… Well, are you coming, or not?”
Anguished, Mr. Elphinstone hesitated, then sighed and said, “Well, Juliana, my dear, if you will carry my own Vindication, I daresay I could make shift to bring along a few of my most treasured volumes. We shall just have to leave our clothes behind. I collect, sir, that you have at your disposal an air balloon?”
“You collect rightly,” said Herr Welcker.
Order Joan Aiken’s first book
in the Paget Family Saga
The Smile of the Stranger
On sale now
About the Author
The daughter of Pulitzer Prize–winning poet Conrad Aiken, the late Joan Aiken started writing from the age of five. During her lifetime she published over one hundred books for children and a
dults. She received an MBE from the Queen for her services to Children’s Literature and is well known for her Jane Austen continuations.
The Weeping Ash
The Paget Family Saga
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But Fanny is trapped, until her husband’s cousins arrive from India and a series of explosive events unfold that change the lives of all involved. Andrew is there through it all, strong and steadfast, awaiting Fanny’s greatest self-discovery—no matter how long it takes.
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The Five-Minute Marriage
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Then comes love
But perfect plans usually go awry. Not only was the marriage ceremony valid, but Gareth’s dying uncle makes a miraculous recovery. An imposter is threatening Delphie’s identity and her life, and the whole family is on the brink of scandal. As Gareth and Delphie try to mastermind a way out of this mess, they begin to discover that what’s between them may be surprisingly real...
Then things start to get really complicated
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Stir in a sensational serialized story that has society ravenous for each installment.
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Take a sip. You’ll laugh, you’ll swoon, you’ll never want this moving Victorian love story to end.
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