Chapter 12 Toulouse #2
Darcy tried in vain to scratch out an answer, and coughed a bit, so Nurse Dashwood lifted him up to a sitting position with the help of the orderly, then helped him drink a half glass of water. She then arranged some pillows behind his back to keep him upright.
“There, is that better?”
“Yes, my thanks.”
She smiled. “You are very polite when you want to be. You do not always want to be, so you should work on your constancy.”
He chuckled. “I will do my best.”
“See to it—and let us get back to the main topic, as I do have other patients. As you may know, typhus has been around forever. The English name comes from the Greek t?phos, meaning ‘hazy mind,’ which, as you can tell, is one of the symptoms. It usually involves a very high and long-lasting fever, starting a fortnight to a month after exposure. Nobody really knows the cause, but it is exacerbated by tight quarters and unclean conditions. Prisons, soldiers, and poor areas are the usual breeding grounds. Gentlemen such as yourself are less susceptible, but they occasionally catch it from people associated with the sick. For example, you often have outbreaks in your courts with judges and the like, and your prisons are so rife with it that sometimes a delay in coming to trial is tantamount to a death sentence.”
Darcy nodded, finding the explanation tiring.
“I tell you this because last time you were like a dog with a bone until I explained it all.”
“Last time?” he croaked.
“Yes. Pray, allow me to continue. Typhus manifests as a heavy fever, which lasts a week to a fortnight. Three in ten succumb during that stage. After the fever, it is common to be fuzzy in your thinking, and it is also common to lose some memories. Some come back and others do not. After that, there is a bit of a nasty rash covering your entire body, excepting the face for some reason. Even then you can get fever, delirium, memory loss—” then she laughed a bit. “Repeating myself.”
Darcy chuckled grimly. “Perhaps experience has taught you to beat things into my head.”
“I see your sense of humour is recovering faster this time,” she replied with a soft smile.
“You keep saying ‘this time’?” he asked confusedly.
“Yes sir. You went through the fever, then the rash, and seemed to be on the mend, but you relapsed back to the fever about a week ago. We thought you were going to die, which would have annoyed Babette no end, so we are happy you pulled through.”
“Is Babette so fond of me then?”
Ralston laughed. “Sorry, old man—couldn’t help myself. I think Babette just does not like to lose. Bit of pride, that one.”
“I believe that is correct.”
Darcy felt his eyes falling but saw the aforementioned Babette coming back down the aisle carrying a tray of soup.
Nurse Dashwood stood up briskly. “Speaking of Babette, it appears she has decided to keep you around for a while. She will feed you, then you need sleep. We will speak again when you wake up, and hope your mind is clearer.”
“Thank you, Nurse Dashwood. Merci, Babette.”
Babette gave him a bit of a smile and then proceeded to spoon feed him like a baby, which he would have strenuously objected to if he could have moved his arms well enough to do the job properly (or at all, for that matter).
A hacking cough awoke Darcy, along with Ralston and everyone else within a few dozen yards.
“You all right there, good fellow?”
Darcy got his cough under control just as a bleary-eyed Babette appeared carrying a small glass and a medicine bottle on a tray, followed by the same young orderly that assisted her earlier.
The two helped him sit up, and she gave him a small glass of water, but not very much.
Darcy was surprised to realise she had been speaking to him in French for some minutes, and he understood it.
“Thank you, I understand you now,” he managed to spit out in rough but serviceable French.
She smiled and nodded. “You recover faster this time, M Darcy. That is good.”
She fluffed the pillows behind his back and handed him the cup, still speaking in French. “This is tea with honey, a simple way to help your cough. It may also have some laudanum—you never know.”
Not feeling up to arguing, he drank the tea with her help, then quickly fell back asleep.
The sun was well up when he awoke again, feeling somewhat refreshed.
Nurse Dashwood walked by a few minutes later. “Feeling human again?”
“Do I look more human?” he asked with only a bit of a cough.
She put her hand on his forehead, looked into each eye, and much to his embarrassment, opened his shirt to look at his chest. She then closed his shirt and washed her hands in a bowl of water, scrubbing with some harsh looking soap.
“That is to try to prevent transmission of the disease, since it could well go through contact for all we know. I have no idea if it works or not, but many of the ancients said some equivalent of ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’, and it cannot hurt.”
“Does anybody have a guess about how the disease transmits?”
“Many guesses, most of them contradictory, half of them unable to stand even cursory examination. In the end, nobody seems to know. Everything from bugs or fleas, to water, to food, to contact, to miasma (which may as well mean ghosts), has been proposed, but nobody knows.”
Once her hands were clean, she reached into a pocket on her apron.
“I have a letter for you. When your fever came down the first time, it took a fortnight to get any real sense out of you. Once you had some intact memories, I suggested you write some of it down. You spent several days writing this. Perhaps it will help.”
She handed him the paper. “I will return around evening. If you are still awake, I will try to answer any questions you have, but you told me you got most of the important things into the letter.”
“Thank you, Nurse Dashwood. I do not believe I have earned your care, but I appreciate it nonetheless, and I will endeavour to find a way to repay you.”
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Darcy. Your supreme challenge for the next fortnight will be getting to the privy. If you can manage that, then we can discuss other great and noble feats. You are far from recovered, and getting your strength back from typhus takes at least three months. You will be here a while yet. Good night, sir.”
“Good night, madam.”
Darcy wanted to tear the letter open and read it immediately, but he found the short conversation had exhausted him, so he fell asleep with it clasped in his hand.