These two men--one at the summit of honor
and of his science, enjoying an immense fortune and an immense
reputation; the other a humble Omega, having neither fortune nor fame
--became intimate friends.
The great Desplein told his house surgeon everything; the disciple knew
whether such or such a woman had sat on a chair near the master, or on
the famous couch in Desplein's surgery, on which he slept. Bianchon knew
the mysteries of that temperament, a compound of the lion and the bull,
which at last expanded and enlarged beyond measure the great man's
torso, and caused his death by degeneration of the heart. He studied the
eccentricities of that busy life, the schemes of that sordid avarice,
the hopes of the politician who lurked behind the man of science; he was
able to foresee the mortifications that awaited the only sentiment that
lay hid in a heart that was steeled, but not of steel.
One day Bianchon spoke to Desplein of a poor water-carrier of the
Saint-Jacques district, who had a horrible disease caused by fatigue and
want; this wretched Auvergnat had had nothing but potatoes to eat during
the dreadful winter of 1821. Desplein left all his visits, and at the
risk of killing his horse, he rushed off, followed by Bianchon, to the
poor man's dwelling, and saw, himself, to his being removed to a sick
house, founded by the famous Dubois in the Faubourg Saint-Denis.
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