Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 633 Hell on Earth! (Second update, please vote!)

Lionel muttered angrily, "Miasma theory! It's miasma theory again!" He was furious because he had read some popular science articles on medical history!
He knew that decades earlier, British physician John Snow had proven through his investigation of a cholera outbreak on Broad Street in London that cholera was transmitted through contaminated water.

John Snow located the public well, removed the pump handle, making it impossible for people to draw water from it, and the pandemic subsided shortly afterward.

That was in 1849. Thirty-five years later, French doctors still believed in miasma—simply because John Snow was a damned Englishman!
Sophie brought in the coffee and, seeing Lionel's expression, asked, "What's wrong?"

Lionel pointed to the newspaper: "Look at what these experts are saying. Miasma, moral depravity, carrying handkerchiefs soaked in vinegar, burning incense at home..."

Sophie picked up the newspaper and read it through, somewhat puzzled: "That's what my grandfather said back then. Doesn't it work?"

Lionel shook his head: "Cholera is transmitted through water, not air. The vomit and feces of patients contaminate the water source, and drinking that water will make you sick, it's that simple."

Sophie was very surprised: "Then why did the doctor say it was miasma?"

Lionel said with a helpless tone, "Because admitting you're wrong is harder than anything else!"

He was silent for a moment, then asked Sophie, "What about the boy? Petty's brother, Leon."

Sophie sighed. "Still haven't found them. The leatherworkers' shops are all concentrated in the 19th district, which is in a mess right now. Petty's parents might have been taken to Labbert Hospital."

The hospital has become a living hell; its management is practically paralyzed, and it's been sealed off by the police, making it impossible for outsiders to find a way to get messages in.

Lionel was silent for a moment before speaking: "Go and urge them again."

Sophie nodded and turned to leave, but Lionel called out to her, "Sophie."

Sophie turned around.

Lionel looked worried: "Those who go there should also be careful. Tell them not to eat or drink anything there. Cholera is no joke."

Sophie nodded and left the study.

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As the new day begins, the pandemic continues to spread.

The 11th ward reported 23 new cases and 11 deaths; the 19th ward reported 17 new cases and 9 deaths; and the 20th ward reported 12 new cases and 6 deaths.

The roads began to empty out, with only the occasional horse-drawn carriage passing by, and all of Paris began to feel fear!

St. Louis Hospital and Labbert Hospital, which housed patients, became complete hell.

In a large ward, more than twenty people were lying down, each of them groaning, vomiting, and having diarrhea.

The air was filled with the sour smell of feces and vomit, making one want to vomit.

A new patient had just been admitted and lay down when a doctor in a white coat came over.

He examined the patient's complexion, felt his pulse, and then said, "Bloodletting."

This was the universal remedy for almost all diseases in this era, especially when doctors believed that cholera was caused by "overheated" or "poisoned" blood.

The assistant immediately brought over a tray with a tourniquet, a scalpel, and a large bowl on it.

The doctor tied the patient's arm and cut open the vein. Dark red blood flowed out and into the bowl.

The patient was already weak, and the bleeding made him even paler. He tried to struggle, but he was too weak.

After draining about half a liter of blood, the doctor pressed on the wound and said, "That's it. We'll drain it again tomorrow."

Then he moved on to the next patient, preparing to continue bleeding them.

At the other end of the ward, another doctor was giving an enema to an elderly woman.

The nurse inserted a long tube into the old woman's anus and then poured soapy water mixed with mercuric iodide and salt into it.

The old woman screamed loudly, but the doctor ignored her and told her to continue pouring water in.

Not long after the drenching, the old lady began to have projectile diarrhea, and she curled up into a ball.

The doctor said to the nurse, "It seems the toxins in your intestines have been expelled. Continue tomorrow, and make sure all the toxins are eliminated!"

After the old lady finished defecating, she was almost completely exhausted and could only lie in bed with her eyes half-closed, her lips cracked, unable to utter a single word.

Her daughter, also a patient, climbed to her mother's bedside, crying and calling out to her, but she did not respond.

In another ward across the corridor, a young doctor was giving a middle-aged man a special medicine.

The man was so dehydrated that his lips were cracked, his eyes were sunken, and his skin was wrinkled when pinched.

The doctor held up a glass of liquid: "Drink this. It's diluted sulfuric acid; it will kill the toxins in your body."

The man didn't know what "sulfuric acid" was, but since it was a medicine given to him by the doctor, he naturally couldn't refuse.

He took the cup, took a sip, but immediately screamed in agony as the cup fell to the ground and shattered.

Even after being diluted, the sulfuric acid still burned his esophagus and stomach intensely, causing him to curl up in bed and convulse repeatedly, sometimes even bouncing off the bed.

The doctor frowned: "Such a strong reaction? The dosage might be a bit too high. Reduce it by half tomorrow."

After saying that, he turned and left with his assistant, leaving the man convulsing on the bed.

In the next bed, a patient had died. His skin had turned ashen, and his lips had completely lost their color. He had been motionless for two whole hours, but no one had noticed.

The nurses were too busy caring for the living to examine the dead. It wasn't until another patient cried out in terror that the nurses came over to take a look, then rang the bell to have the shelter workers carry the body away.

The body was taken to the basement and piled up with other bodies, waiting for the family to come and claim it.

Bodies without family members are taken to Ifry Cemetery or Montparnasse Cemetery, covered with a thick layer of quicklime, and then buried in layers.

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Gaspar Millai, a 39-year-old dockworker, and his wife Mathilde Millai are lying dying in the largest public ward of Labote Hospital.

They had been hospitalized for two days, and the doctor had only glanced at them when they first arrived and hadn't paid any attention to them since.

Gaspar Millais kept muttering something, but no one paid him any attention.

Mathilde Millais, in the next bed, was still somewhat conscious. She leaned over to listen and only caught a few words: "Water...give me water..."

Mathilde Millais grabbed the hand of a passing nurse: "Please, give him some water. He's thirsty."

The nurse shook her head helplessly: "The doctor doesn't allow us to drink water. Drinking water will worsen the condition."

Mathilde was almost crying: "He's dying of thirst..."

The nurse could do nothing to help and could only turn and leave.

After a while, the doctor finally arrived. He looked at Gaspar Millai, felt his pulse, and then decisively ordered, "Bloodletting."

An assistant brought over a tray, and the doctor tightened Gaspar Millais's arm and skillfully cut open the vein with a scalpel.

Crimson blood flowed out, and the blood in the bowl quickly swelled up like the surface of a lake after a rainstorm.

Gaspar Millais's eyes widened briefly, then closed again.

After draining about half a liter of blood, the doctor pressed down on the wound, bandaged it, and then said, "All done. He's calm again!"

Then he looked at Mathilde Millais and felt her pulse: “You’re in better shape. No need for bloodletting, but you need to cleanse your intestines.”

He asked his assistant to bring him a cup of medicine: "Drink this. It's a decoction made from castor oil and senna leaves; it can clear toxins from your intestines."

Mathilde Millais took the cup, then hesitated. She knew what castor oil was—it was a laxative! But she was already in terrible trouble; drinking another laxative…

But the doctor looked at her with an unquestionable gaze. She had no choice but to drink it. A few minutes later, her stomach began to cramp, followed by diarrhea.

She sat on the bedpan by the bed and defecated again and again, until it was all water, and finally there was no water left, she just dry heaved.

She lay motionless on the bed, as if all her energy had been drained away.

At 8 p.m., Gaspar Millai began to convulse, his hands and feet twitching uncontrollably, his face contorted, and he made gurgling sounds.

Mathilde Millais wanted to go see him, but she couldn't move at all and could only lie in bed and cry out softly, "Gaspar! Gaspar!"

The nurse ran over, glanced at him, and then ran to find the doctor. By the time the doctor arrived, Gaspar Millais was already motionless.

The doctor checked the pulse and listened to the heartbeat, then said to the nurse, "He's dead. Take him away."

The nurse called two people from the relief center, who lifted Gaspar Millais's body and carried it outside.

Mathilde Millais reached out to grab her husband, but couldn't reach him. She could only watch his body disappear through the doorway.

Then she lay on the bed, unable to cry out, only wailing silently.

The patient in the next bed glanced at her, then turned his head away and continued groaning.

Here, compassion is both the cheapest and the most luxurious thing.

No one spoke in the ward. Only groans, vomiting, diarrhea, and the occasional scream could be heard.

At three in the morning, Mathilde Millais began to convulse.

Her condition was the same as her husband's: her hands and feet twitched, her face contorted, and she made gurgling sounds. She struggled to call for help, but couldn't make a sound.

She thought of her daughter Petty, her son Leon, her husband who was alive just yesterday… and then her consciousness began to fade…

When the nurse found her, she was already dead. The nurse called the shelter worker again to carry her body away.

Soon she, along with dozens of other corpses, was piled up in the basement, waiting for family members to claim them or for them to be taken to the cemetery.

Gaspar Millais, a dockworker, died at 2 p.m. on February 7, 1884.

Mathilde Millais, the washerwoman, died at 2 a.m. on February 8, 1884.

They lived for over thirty years, and when they died, all that remained were two cold lines in the hospital record.

On the morning of February 8, the bodies in the basement of St. Louis Hospital had been piled up like a small mountain.

Meanwhile, newspapers were praising doctors for using "mature methods" such as bloodletting, enemas, and laxatives to treat patients;

The Paris health authorities are still sealing off the affected areas, spraying perfume, and burning tar, believing that dispelling the miasma will stop the spread of infection.

Lionel could no longer sit still.

(Second update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)