Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(79)

Justin stared at her, began to say something, but then bit the words off. He raked his hand through his hair. “It would be better to wait for Dassin,” he said curtly.

The girl shook her head wildly. “Non, non, Paul may die! He is coughing until he cannot breathe. Dr. Vallerand, you must come upstairs and do something for him!”

Celia emerged from the darkness and stood by Justin’s side. She was pale but controlled. “Have you tried a steam kettle?” she asked. “Have him inhale the steam until—”

“We have tried that for hours,” Amalie replied. “It has not helped at all.”

Celia and Justin stared at each other. They would have to do what they could until Dr. Dassin arrived. There was no other choice. “Bien, take us upstairs to your brother, Amalie,” Celia said, forcing thoughts of Legare to the back of her mind.

They proceeded in silence to the sickroom. Celia recognized what was wrong soon after she began to look at the listless boy. He had a hacking cough that sounded like croup, a thready pulse, and a bluish pallor. She had seen these same symptoms years before when the illness had spread among the children of a village near her home. She had gone with her father on many of his rounds. A telltale membrane formed in the back of the throat, in the worst cases sealing it off until the child could not breathe at all.

Paul, a boy of not more than four or five years, seemed unaware of her presence. He coughed weakly and began to choke. Celia realized with dread that they could not wait for Dr. Dassin. She knew what had to be done. She had seen her father perform the procedure, a technique he had learned from a talented surgeon in Paris. But she had not had any medical training, and there was every chance she would hurt more than help.

Paul’s breath rattled harshly. Madame Duquesne broke into frightened sobs. “Oh, Dr. Vallerand, you must help my little boy, I beg of you—”

“Madame,” Celia said, gathering her courage. Something had to be done or the boy would suffocate before her eyes. “I believe my husband would like you to bring a very sharp knife and a piece of hollow cane, just a short length, perhaps two inches.”

Madame Duquesne looked at her with wide eyes and then glanced at Justin. He nodded shortly, and the woman fled to fetch the articles. As soon as she left the room, Justin was at the side of the bed, pushing the child’s hair back and staring into the small, sickly face as the boy struggled to breathe.

Carefully Celia poured water from the hot kettle into the wash basin. “They should have sent for the doctor sooner,” she said in English. “Perhaps he will arrive before we have to do anything.”

“I know Dassin,” Justin said, stripping off the foul-smelling poultice the Duquesnes had placed on the boy’s chest. He used a handkerchief to wipe it clean. “Cantankerous old man. He delivered Philippe and me. Though I doubt he would count that among his most distinguished achievements.”

Celia gave him a despairing glance. “Justin, I…don’t know if I can do this.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

Celia hesitated and shook her head. “No, I’ve seen it done before. If I can just remember how my father…” She concentrated, her brow furrowing.

“He’s not breathing at all,” Justin said tersely, giving the small shoulders a shake. The child was unconscious.

Celia’s brain began a swift, methodical ticking. Madame Duquesne burst into the room, and Celia herded her back, taking the knife and snippet of bamboo from her. “Dr. Vallerand requires privacy,” she said firmly. “Please, madame, allow him just a minute or two.”

“Oui, if that is what he wishes, but I would rather stay and—”

“A minute or two,” Celia repeated, and gently urged her out of the room, closing the door behind her. She washed her hands, the knife, and the hollow tube, and sat on the bed. Justin tilted the child’s head back until his neck was fully exposed. Celia’s hand hovered over it with the knife, trembling slightly. She did not want to cut him in the wrong place, perhaps open a vein and be forced to watch as he bled to death.

“Go on,” Justin said quietly.

She whispered a prayer, then made an incision near the base of his throat. There was a small spurt of blood, and she worked the cane into the puncture. She bit her lip until it ached. Suddenly there was an indrawn rush of air through the tube. Frozen, Celia watched and listened, assuring herself that the breathing would continue unhindered. “Thank God,” she said, and shuddered with relief.

Justin released the breath he had been holding and wiped away the streaks of blood. “What now?” he asked.

“The cane will allow him to breathe until his throat clears. In one or two days it can be removed. It should heal quickly…that is, if he survives the rest of the illness.”

There was a fluttering knock at the door, and Madame Duquesne’s voice. “Dr. Vallerand? Dr. Dassin has arrived.”

Dassin strode into the room with his medical bag. He was a small but distinguished man with an intimidating presence. His clothes were old-fashioned: knee breeches, a long floral waistcoat, and a narrow-shouldered frock coat. A gray bob wig was settled on his head. His sharp gray eyes went from Celia to Justin. Justin stared at him without blinking, knowing that Philippe and Dassin had been close friends.

Some glint of hope, anticipation, went out of the doctor’s eyes, and he sighed somewhat bitterly. He went to the bed and examined Celia’s handiwork, smiling reassuringly as Paul awakened. “Ah…c’est bein…do not try to talk, mon fils.” He glanced at Celia and Madame Duquesne. “Il va bien—all is well for now. It would seem that Dr. Vallerand has the situation well in hand. Perhaps the ladies would leave us for a few moments to discuss the diagnosis?”