Brian's blindness was due to
paralysis of the optic nerve; but this American--Cuyler--had performed
spine and brain operations which had restored sight in two similar
cases. There might be a hundredth chance for my brother.
Of course I said it would be possible to take Brian to Paris. I'd have
made it possible if I'd had to sell my hair to do it; and you know my
curly black mop of hair was always my pet vanity. Brian being a soldier,
he could have the operation free, if Doctor Cuyler considered it wise to
operate; but--as our man warned me--there were ninety-nine chances to
one against success: and at all events there would be a lot of expenses
in the immediate future.
I sent in my resignation to the dear Hopital des Epidemies, explaining
my reasons: and presently Brian and I set out for Paris by easy stages.
The cap was put on the climax for me by remembering how he and I had
walked over that very ground three years before, in the sunshine of life
and summer. Brian too thought of the past, but not in bitterness. I hid
my anguish from him, but it gnawed the heart of me with the teeth of a
rat. I couldn't see what Brian had ever done to deserve such a fate as
his, and I began to feel wicked, _wicked_. It seemed that destiny had
built up a high prison wall in front of my brother and me, and I had a
wild impulse to kick and claw at it, though I knew I couldn't pull it
down.
When we arrived in Paris, Doctor Cuyler saw us at once; but his opinion
added another pile of flinty black blocks to the prison wall.
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