F. Scott Fitzgerald - Tender is the Night [121]
Dick considered: “Well—” he decided slowly, “in any case I’ll take care of the family angle. But I imagine they would want a consultation.”
“As you like.”
“I know I speak for them when I ask you to call in one of the best- known medicine men around the lake—Herbrugge, from Geneva.”
“I was thinking of Herbrugge.”
“Meanwhile I’m here for a day at least and I’ll keep in touch with you.”
That evening Dick went to Señor Pardo y Cuidad Real and they talked.
“We have large estates in Chili—” said the old man. “My son could well be taking care of them. Or I can get him in any one of a dozen enterprises in Paris—” He shook his head and paced across the windows against a spring rain so cheerful that it didn’t even drive the swans to cover, “My only son! Can’t you take him with you?”
The Spaniard knelt suddenly at Dick’s feet.
“Can’t you cure my only son? I believe in you—you can take him with you, cure him.”
“It’s impossible to commit a person on such grounds. I wouldn’t if I could.”
The Spaniard got up from his knees.
“I have been hasty—I have been driven—”
Descending to the lobby Dick met Doctor Dangeu in the elevator.
“I was about to call your room,” the latter said. “Can we speak out on the terrace?”
“Is Mr. Warren dead?” Dick demanded.
“He is the same—the consultation is in the morning. Meanwhile he wants to see his daughter—your wife—with the greatest fervor. It seems there was some quarrel—”
“I know all about that.”
The doctors looked at each other, thinking.
“Why don’t you talk to him before you make up your mind?” Dangeu suggested. “His death will be graceful—merely a weakening and sinking.”
With an effort Dick consented.
“All right.”
The suite in which Devereux Warren was gracefully weakening and sinking was of the same size as that of the Señor Pardo y Cuidad Real—throughout this hotel there were many chambers wherein rich ruins, fugitives from justice, claimants to the thrones of mediatized principalities, lived on the derivatives of opium or barbitol listening eternally as to an inescapable radio, to the coarse melodies of old sins. This corner of Europe does not so much draw people as accept them without inconvenient questions. Routes cross here—people bound for private sanitariums or tuberculosis resorts in the mountains, people who are no longer persona gratis in France or Italy.
The suite was darkened. A nun with a holy face was nursing the man whose emaciated fingers stirred a rosary on the white sheet. He was still handsome and his voice summoned up a thick burr of individuality as he spoke to Dick, after Dangeu had left them together.
“We get a lot of understanding at the end of life. Only now, Doctor Diver, do I realize what it was all about.”
Dick waited.
“I’ve been a bad man. You must know how little right I have to see Nicole again, yet a Bigger Man than either of us says to forgive and to pity.” The rosary slipped from his weak hands and slid off the smooth bed covers. Dick picked it up for him. “If I could see Nicole for ten minutes I would go happy out of the world.”
“It’s not a decision I can make for myself,” said Dick. “Nicole is not strong.” He made his decision but pretended to hesitate. “I can put it up to my professional associate.”
“What your associate says goes with me—very well, Doctor. Let me tell you my debt to you is so large—”
Dick stood up quickly.
“I’ll let you know the result through Doctor Dangeu.”
In his room he called the clinic on the Zugersee. After a long time Kaethe answered from her own house.
“I want to get in touch with Franz.”
“Franz is up on the mountain. I’m going up myself—is it something I can tell him, Dick?”
“It’s about Nicole—her father is dying here in Lausanne. Tell Franz that, to show him it’s important; and ask