Standing on the steps of his little town-house in
the Rue de Lisbonne, freshly shaven, with sparkling
eyes, and lips parted in easy enjoyment, his long
hair slightly gray flowing over a huge coat collar,
square shouldered, strong as an oak, the famous Irish
doctor, Robert Jenkins, Knight of the Medjidjieh and
of the distinguished order of Charles III of Spain,
President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society.
Jenkins in a word, the Jenkins of the Jenkins Pills
with an arsenical base—that is to say,
the fashionable doctor of the year 1864, the busiest
man in Paris, was preparing to step into his carriage
when a casement opened on the first floor looking
over the inner court-yard of the house, and a woman’s
voice asked timidly:
“Shall you be home for luncheon, Robert?”
Oh, how good and loyal was the smile that suddenly
illumined the fine apostle-like head with its air
of learning, and in the tender “good-morning”
which his eyes threw up towards the warm, white dressing-gown
visible behind the raised curtains; how easy it was
to divine one of those conjugal passions, tranquil
and sure, which habit re-enforces and with supple
and stable bonds binds closer.
“No, Mrs. Jenkins.” He was fond of
thus bestowing upon her publicly her title as his
lawful wife, as if he found in it an intimate gratification,
a sort of acquittal of conscience towards the woman
who made life so bright for him. “No, do
not expect me this morning. I lunch in the Place
Vendome.”
“Ah! yes, the Nabob,” said the handsome
Mrs. Jenkins with a very marked note of respect for
this personage out of the Thousand and One Nights
of whom all Paris had been talking for the last month;
then, after a little hesitation, very tenderly, in
a quite low voice, from between the heavy tapestries,
she whispered for the ears of the doctor only:
“Be sure you do not forget what you promised
me.”
Apparently it was something very difficult to fulfil,
for at the reminder of this promise the eyebrows of
the apostle contracted into a frown, his smile became
petrified, his whole visage assumed an expression
of incredible hardness; but it was only for an instant.
At the bedside of their patients the physiognomies
of these fashionable doctors become expert in lying.
In his most tender, most cordial manner, he replied,
disclosing a row of dazzling white teeth:
“What I promised shall be done, Mrs. Jenkins.
And now, go in quickly and shut your window.
The fog is cold this morning.”
