Chapter 183: The Great Disaster [5]
“It’s falsified.”
Wasn’t that what people said when they had run out of things to argue? Especially coming from Korai, it did not sound credible at all.
No… how can someone who’s seen that many patients still look so fresh?
Just look at us. We were on the brink of collapse. It was not just a feeling. We truly were on the edge. We had been filtering the filthy Seine water, boiling it, distilling it, cooling it to just the right temperature, and then feeding it to patients in large quantities.
And even then—
“What the hell? You won’t drink? You want to die?”
If it had not been for Liston, we would have lost so many more. There were plenty of patients who refused to drink the water we had painstakingly prepared, choosing to die instead. But who could blame them? Most hospitals at the time taught that diarrhea and vomiting were caused by too much water in the body. Of course people were wary of drinking more.
“Stop the nonsense and draw some blood!”
There were even those who requested bloodletting. Why? Because they believed the illness was caused by an imbalance. Some thought it was an excess of water, while others believed it was too much blood. In fact, some hospitals were treating cholera, the same cholera that caused diarrhea, vomiting, and dehydration, by bleeding the patients.
“Cholera is terrifying! If you catch it, seventy percent of people die!”
For reference, the natural mortality rate was about fifty percent. Left untreated, half the patients would die. It was a staggeringly lethal disease. But when I heard people say things like that, it almost made me feel as if I were dying all over again. Your instincts told you to drink water to survive, but doctors stopped you. And then they bled you too?
“Use your common sense, Sir François! How can you say that only ten percent of people die from cholera?”
He was appealing to what passed for common sense in this era. And to be fair, Korai had not become a prominent figure in Montpellier medicine for nothing. His voice carried authority. Even for someone like me, who knew better, it was persuasive. Unnervingly so.
“But that’s what the data says.”
Sir François did not waver. He fanned himself with the report we had submitted and responded coldly.
“It is not just hospital records. The cemetery data corroborates it too. The numbers line up. Are you saying you have more credibility than Montpellier, which submitted nothing?”
It was the kind of voice one heard from a seasoned academic. Sharp, articulate, calm, and cutting. The kind of voice that made your bladder twitch.
How is someone this reasonable even alive in this time?
And then it struck me. France was the country of Voltaire. The Enlightenment. Freedom of speech. The man may have been from the eighteenth century, but those ideals had lingered. “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” That kind of thinking.
So maybe it was not so strange that someone like François existed here. What was strange was that people like him were the exception.
“Hey.”
Korai faltered at François’ words. We could not help smirking. Liston actually burst out laughing, which was risky, considering how easily even the most renowned figures could be mobbed for stepping out of line. But I supposed Liston knew that too. If you were going to die anyway, you might as well die laughing.
“Listen closely, good citizens of Paris! They are British!”
But it seemed we had popped the champagne a little too early. Korai pivoted straight into twenty-first-century-style propaganda.
If you don’t like the message, attack the messenger.
It was classic. Almost Goebbels-like. Though that man was German. Still, the strategy rang familiar.
“How can you trust the words of the British? They’re here to deceive and frighten us!”
“Booo!”
The crowd erupted. All our work, all our carefully compiled data, was being trampled beneath the rising tide of nationalism. It felt as if they might roll out a guillotine at any moment. Some people in the mob were already eyeing my neck like they were planning how to cut it.
“That’s not true!”
Jean-Pierre stepped forward, his voice hoarse.
“These people saved lives! The people standing here today survived because of them!”
He pointed to former patients, people who had come to our hospital early in the outbreak and lived. Apparently, Jean-Pierre had quietly organized them as backup.
“If we had gone to Montpellier, we would be dead by now!”
The crowd shifted. The atmosphere changed. Some of the survivors glared at Korai as if they wanted to cut his throat instead.
Regardless of the outcome… I need to get out of France soon.
The revolutionary spirit ran deep here. It seemed that, no matter what, the people were always on the verge of toppling someone.
“Silence! Quiet!”
François stepped forward. His guards stomped in unison, boots thundering against the stone floor. The room immediately fell into uneasy silence.
Ah. The crowd is gathered, and the military is here. Classic Revolution setup.
It made me rethink my grumbling about being reincarnated in England. If I had been born here, I probably would have already died in a street riot. This was just a medical conference, a place to study and save lives, but it felt more like a political uprising.
“Jean-Pierre.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me honestly. Are there any British here?”
That was the first thing he asked. The England-France relationship must have been worse than I thought. They may have been allies in the twenty-first century, but apparently not in this era.
“Ah… yes. But they are doctors! First and foremost, they are doctors. They saved many lives!”
“But they are British.”
“Well… yes, I cannot lie about that.”
“Don’t worry. That does not reduce the credibility of the data. But… it does make us more cautious.”
François sighed, then looked down at the document he had just been waving around. He glanced at Korai, then at the doctors behind him, then at the angry mob. The soldiers had silenced them for now, but the tension was razor-sharp. Even François, experienced as he was, looked uneasy.
“Here’s what we’ll do.”
He wet his lips and continued in a calm but firm tone.
“Montpellier will follow its own guidelines. The Royal Academy of Surgery will follow theirs. And ten years from now, we will compare the results.”
Ten years?
That man is buying time.
I could tell. I did not know much about the July Revolution, but I knew there had been a lot of bloodshed. Even if you rose to power, you would make enemies. A controversy like this could get you killed.
“Well, that was… pretty smooth.”
Jean-Pierre seemed impressed. Then he mumbled something in French, probably an insult.
Liston, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Honestly… maybe our theory is a little too radical.”
It was a surprisingly humble thing for Liston to say. I had assumed he would be happy about all the deaths Montpellier’s outdated methods would cause. But he was not. Beneath that harsh face, Liston was a good man. Once again, he had surprised me.
“Yes.”
I was too moved to say more. We climbed into the carriage. Behind us, the angry mob roared, but we barely paid attention.
Dogs barking did not scare tigers.
“If this had happened under normal circumstances, you would have been beheaded for spreading this theory. Aren’t these people obsessed with chopping heads off?”
“Ah.”
That kind of dedication… Honestly, I was lucky to be born in England.
“But then cholera broke out. And in that crisis, we made progress. Half of them accepted our theory. Even François, that man with the funny name, probably agrees with us deep down.”
“But didn’t he give us ten years?”
“Sure. But think. Even if the British say it is true now, what about ten years from now? Look at that river.”
He pointed at the Seine. It had improved slightly, thanks to fewer people and less sewage, but it was still a filthy, disease-ridden mess. One would be lucky to see even three centimeters deep.
“Cholera will return. Things won’t improve. Eventually, the truth will come out. And it will be the French who keep dying in the meantime. Let them.”
Liston gave a soft, knowing laugh. So did I.
It was so like him.
We returned to the hospital. There were still patients, but our staff had been trained well. They kept things running smoothly without needing our help.
“I’m sorry. You deserved a medal… for being British.”
Jean-Pierre scratched the back of his head, watching us exhale in relief. If I had not heard Liston’s thoughts earlier, I might have said something. But in the end, I only smiled.
“Anyway, get some rest. Oh, right—”
He turned back, glancing at me instead of Liston.
“Alexandre Dumas wants to introduce someone to you. Do you have time today?”
Dumas. The father of genre fiction.
I was a huge fan of The Count of Monte Cristo. There was even a scene where someone smoked hashish. I had not known that was drawn from experience, but either way, I was not going to say no.
“Yes. I’d love that.”
“Great. I’ll let you know when the carriage arrives.”