Okay, I decided to do a oneshot exploring the thoughts of the plague doctor who tended Belle's mother. Having to deal with a devastating pandemic could not have been easy for those tasked with it, so I wanted to explore what may have gone through his mind. I also wanted to explore how the plague mask came to be left in the attic for Belle and Beast to find a couple decades later.
I had been summoned to yet another potential plague victim. Paris had become quite a chaotic scene, and I was very busy making rounds to diagnose victims, offer whatever treatment I could, which honestly was very little and rather futile, and mainly consisted of offering some tincture of opium to make the final days just a bit easier, and checking daily on patients to know when they had finally succumbed. Very few survived the plague, only those whose bodies were somehow strong enough to keep the awful disease from advancing beyond its earliest stages. This illness is not nicknamed Black Death for nothing, make no mistake.
My patient's husband, an artist, met me at the door of the small windmill attic that served as home for him, his wife, and their infant daughter.
"Thank you for coming, doctor," the man said in greeting.
"Monsieur," I said gravely. "I must advise that if this is in fact plague, you will have to take your baby and flee immediately."
"You mean leave my wife alone to suffer and perish?" he asked incredulously.
"Afraid so," I said. "I have seen what happens when the loved ones of a plague victim refuse to leave. They soon become plague victims themselves."
I pulled a beaked mask from my pocket and put it on, then followed the man into the room. He sat in the chair near his wife. I opened my kit and began my examination. She had a very high fever. She told me, weakly, that she felt like vomiting. She hurt all over. There were lesions of dying flesh. And most telling, the buboes, or large swellings that were painful to the touch. Each time I visit a potential plague victim, I hope it is something different. Something less deadly. And each time, that hope is dashed within a minute or two. It was no different with this patient. And she had reached such a stage that I could tell she would not be one of the lucky few who could fight the disease.
"It's plague," I said grimly. "And the prognosis is grave. I'm sorry to say you'll be dead within days. A week at most."
I hated giving this news. I knew the coming days would only get worse until her body finally gave out.
"You feel like vomiting now, and I can tell you you'll do just that. And things won't be any more pleasant coming out the other end."
I reached into my kit and took out a bottle and a small cup. I filled it half way and handed it to her. It was the only help I could offer.
"Tincture of opium," I explained. "To make it at least somewhat bearable."
"Thank you," she whispered before drinking.
I took out two more dosing cups, filled them halfway, and set them on the bedside table. When she was done drinking, I took the first cup and put another dose in, setting it with the others.
"I'll check back on you tomorrow," I said. "You'll hopefully fall asleep soon, I gave you a dose that should help you sleep. I'm leaving three more doses. Take one whenever you awaken. This should last until I return."
I quickly closed my kit and turned from her. I could do nothing more here. If she still drew breath tomorrow I would leave more opium doses. But that was all I could do. Except one more thing. Remind my patient's husband of what I had already told him he must do if plague was my diagnosis.
"You must leave. Now."
My voice was firm, cold even. The gravity of the situation left no room for sympathy to lace my voice.
I quickly made my exit. Just before I was far enough away for them to be out of earshot, I heard the plea she made to her husband.
"Quickly, before it takes her too."
Outside, I paused. A plague doctor does not have time to dwell on the unfairness of the disease or allow for emotions to come into play. But I always take a moment when leaving the home of a plague victim to offer up a silent prayer. That the patient wouldn't suffer long. That the patient's loved ones would in fact leave and make haste about it. And in this case, that the young daughter of my patient, just a few months old, would be spared her mother's fate and grow up and lead a full, meaningful life.
And then I went on to my next patient.
It was five days later, and early afternoon. I made another daily visit to the mother whose husband I had told to flee with their infant daughter. The mother who then urged her husband to heed my dire warning, selflessly putting the welfare of her family over wanting them near in her final days. I saw she was barely breathing. Breaths were slow and shallow. She was completely unresponsive. It would not be long. In fact I only stood by her for a few seconds before she gave a few gasps that I recognized as the last breaths one takes before breathing stops altogether. Agonal respirations they're called, though no consciousness remained to register suffering. That did not last long before all breathing ceased. I stood there watching a couple minutes more, but nothing happened.
Her struggle was finally over.
And now, so was mine as a plague doctor. I had sent for a replacement, who had arrived just before I came here. The wife of the artist and mother of the infant daughter was one I wanted to check once more, and there was some gratefulness on my part that I had checked her and saw her struggle come to an end. I would never know what became of her husband or their daughter, but at least I knew her suffering was over.
Dealing with the plague had taken an emotional toll, though I never allowed anyone to see it. But I sent for someone to come relieve me because I knew I had to be done. Since my replacement had arrived, I knew I could be done. So I took the ominous beaked mask off and tossed it aside, knowing I would no longer need it.
I left the windmill attic knowing my last duty as a plague doctor would be to make it known that the body of my last patient could be removed.