Our dear invalid was carried upstairs in her
husband's arms, and I put her to bed while a doctor was sent for. Of
course, we had no permission to spend a night at Soissons, but I began
to foresee that we should have to stay unless we were turned out by the
military authorities.
When the doctor came--a _medecin major_ fetched from a hospital by our
officer-guide--he said that Madame was suffering from malarial symptoms;
she must have been poisoned. So then of course we remembered the sting
on her throat. He examined it, looked rather grave, and warned Father
Beckett that _Madame sa femme_ would not be able to travel that day. She
had a high temperature, and at best must have a day or two of repose,
with no food save a little boiled milk.
Soissons seemed the last place in France to hope for milk of any
description, but the doctor promised it from the hospital if it couldn't
be got elsewhere, and added with pride that Soissons was not without
resources. "When the Germans came three years ago," he said, "most of
the inhabitants had fled, taking what they could carry. Only seven
hundred souls were left, out of fifteen thousand, but many have come
back: we have more than two thousand now, and some of them behaved like
heroes and heroines. Oh yes, we may almost say that life goes on
normally! You shall have all the milk you need for Madame."
When she had taken some medicine, and smiled at him, Father Beckett left
his wife in my care, and rushed off to arrange about permission to stop.
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