It
was being played with a deliberate, persevering virtuosity, and through
the _fioritures_ of the tune one could even hear the thump of the foot
beating time on the floor.
Lieutenant D'Hubert shouted a name which was that of an army surgeon
whom he knew fairly well. The sounds of the flute ceased and the
musician appeared at the window, his instrument still in his hand,
peering into the street.
"Who calls? You, D'Hubert! What brings you this way?"
He did not like to be disturbed when he was playing the flute. He was a
man whose hair had turned gray already in the thankless task of tying up
wounds on battlefields where others reaped advancement and glory.
"I want you to go at once and see Feraud. You know Lieutenant Feraud? He
lives down the second street. It's but a step from here."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Wounded."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure!" cried D'Hubert. "I come from there."
"That's amusing," said the elderly surgeon. Amusing was his favourite
word; but the expression of his face when he pronounced it never
corresponded. He was a stolid man. "Come in," he added. "I'll get ready
in a moment."
"Thanks. I will. I want to wash my hands in your room."
Lieutenant D'Hubert found the surgeon occupied in unscrewing his flute
and packing the pieces methodically in a velvet-lined case. He turned
his head.
"Water there--in the corner. Your hands do want washing."
"I've stopped the bleeding," said Lieutenant D'Hubert.
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