said.
Monsieur Treville nodded. “Aha! I thought so. Yes, I thought so.” He turned to me. “So you are a doctor, are you?”
“My superior in the village, Dr. Gros, might dispute that, sir. But in fact I have leapt all the barriers of doubt and memorized all the rote trivia required to affix the word Doctor to my name.” I blush even now to recall those memorized set pieces I used to trot out when the occasion presented itself.
“Yes, but are you a doctor or not?” the old man asked, inadvertently deflating my pompous phrasing by failing to comprehend it.
“Yes, sir, I am.” From the first moment, I took a liking to Monsieur Treville and his vague, absent-minded ways, although we had been at the table the better part of ten minutes before he realized I was sitting amongst them. His large, open features, his thick grey hair tousled with fingers raked through it nervously as he studied, his clear eyes sparkling with intelligence and almost boyish energy whenever he spoke of something of interest to him—all of these were my ideal image of the kindly old scholar. Then too, he was Katya’s father.
“Doctor, eh?” Monsieur Treville said. “Oh yes, of course!” He turned to Paul. “You had some sort of accident, didn’t you? Fell over something, wasn’t it?”
“I fell off the roof, Papa, while I was trying to catch clouds in a net. Fortunately, I landed headfirst in a pool of crocodiles and that broke my fall.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. So you’re a doctor, young man. That’s very interesting. Your studies didn’t happen to lead you to an interest in medieval village life by any chance, did they?”
I glanced in confusion at Katya, who smiled impishly. “Ah… well, not in any very direct way, sir. But I’ve always been fascinated by the subject.”
Monsieur Treville’s face lit up. “Oh? Have you indeed? What aspects particularly interest you?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Paul said, leaning forward with mock interest. “Do tell us.”
Katya gave him a reproving frown, but he raised his eyebrows in blandest innocence, as I stammered out, “Well… the whole topic is fascinating. Particularly… ah… particularly the medical… ah…”
“The plague!” Monsieur Treville injected. “Yes, I am sure the arrival of the Black Death in ‘48/’49 would be of particular interest to a doctor.”
“That would be 13 48 and ‘49,” young Treville clarified helpfully.
Monsieur Treville frowned at his son and blinked several times. “Did someone say something about crocodiles? What’s all this about crocodiles?”
“I didn’t understand that completely myself, Father,” Paul confessed. “Something to do with the Great Plague perhaps. Could you clarify that for us, Doctor?”
“No, no, young man,” Monsieur Treville said laying his hand on my arm and chuckling. “Rats! Rats and lice. Nothing to do with crocodiles at all. Possibly the fact that the plague entered Europe through Mediterranean ports gave birth to this fiction about crocodiles—though I confess that I’ve never run across the legend myself. You wouldn’t happen to recall where you read it, would you?”
Katya came to my rescue, diverting the conversation into light channels until dinner had progressed to the fruit and a disk of the strong, salty local cheese, at which Paul poked distastefully with the tip of his knife. I could sense that Katya was pleased with me, pleased with my evident liking for her father and with his delight at having someone new with whom to talk. My romantic imagination staged domestic daydreams concerning an at-home dinner with the brother-in-law and father-in-law visiting our modest (but charming) home, and in neglect of my social responsibilities I allowed myself to become lost in these pleasant reveries to such a depth that I was quite surprised when Monsieur Treville’s voice intersected my egoistic wanderings.
“…or don’t you agree, Doctor?”
“Ah… yes. Yes! I do indeed agree. Yes,
Monsieur Treville nodded. “Aha! I thought so. Yes, I thought so.” He turned to me. “So you are a doctor, are you?”
“My superior in the village, Dr. Gros, might dispute that, sir. But in fact I have leapt all the barriers of doubt and memorized all the rote trivia required to affix the word Doctor to my name.” I blush even now to recall those memorized set pieces I used to trot out when the occasion presented itself.
“Yes, but are you a doctor or not?” the old man asked, inadvertently deflating my pompous phrasing by failing to comprehend it.
“Yes, sir, I am.” From the first moment, I took a liking to Monsieur Treville and his vague, absent-minded ways, although we had been at the table the better part of ten minutes before he realized I was sitting amongst them. His large, open features, his thick grey hair tousled with fingers raked through it nervously as he studied, his clear eyes sparkling with intelligence and almost boyish energy whenever he spoke of something of interest to him—all of these were my ideal image of the kindly old scholar. Then too, he was Katya’s father.
“Doctor, eh?” Monsieur Treville said. “Oh yes, of course!” He turned to Paul. “You had some sort of accident, didn’t you? Fell over something, wasn’t it?”
“I fell off the roof, Papa, while I was trying to catch clouds in a net. Fortunately, I landed headfirst in a pool of crocodiles and that broke my fall.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. So you’re a doctor, young man. That’s very interesting. Your studies didn’t happen to lead you to an interest in medieval village life by any chance, did they?”
I glanced in confusion at Katya, who smiled impishly. “Ah… well, not in any very direct way, sir. But I’ve always been fascinated by the subject.”
Monsieur Treville’s face lit up. “Oh? Have you indeed? What aspects particularly interest you?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Paul said, leaning forward with mock interest. “Do tell us.”
Katya gave him a reproving frown, but he raised his eyebrows in blandest innocence, as I stammered out, “Well… the whole topic is fascinating. Particularly… ah… particularly the medical… ah…”
“The plague!” Monsieur Treville injected. “Yes, I am sure the arrival of the Black Death in ‘48/’49 would be of particular interest to a doctor.”
“That would be 13 48 and ‘49,” young Treville clarified helpfully.
Monsieur Treville frowned at his son and blinked several times. “Did someone say something about crocodiles? What’s all this about crocodiles?”
“I didn’t understand that completely myself, Father,” Paul confessed. “Something to do with the Great Plague perhaps. Could you clarify that for us, Doctor?”
“No, no, young man,” Monsieur Treville said laying his hand on my arm and chuckling. “Rats! Rats and lice. Nothing to do with crocodiles at all. Possibly the fact that the plague entered Europe through Mediterranean ports gave birth to this fiction about crocodiles—though I confess that I’ve never run across the legend myself. You wouldn’t happen to recall where you read it, would you?”
Katya came to my rescue, diverting the conversation into light channels until dinner had progressed to the fruit and a disk of the strong, salty local cheese, at which Paul poked distastefully with the tip of his knife. I could sense that Katya was pleased with me, pleased with my evident liking for her father and with his delight at having someone new with whom to talk. My romantic imagination staged domestic daydreams concerning an at-home dinner with the brother-in-law and father-in-law visiting our modest (but charming) home, and in neglect of my social responsibilities I allowed myself to become lost in these pleasant reveries to such a depth that I was quite surprised when Monsieur Treville’s voice intersected my egoistic wanderings.
“…or don’t you agree, Doctor?”
“Ah… yes. Yes! I do indeed agree. Yes,
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