Chapter 4 - A Hopeless Case

Raoul snapped his pocket watch shut, shot up from the creaking leather chair, and once again made a circuit of the small space in front of the cluttered desk. Five paces to the bookshelf, five more to the tiny fogged window, ten back to the desk. A large and well-worn book sat upon one corner, the words Reproductive Organs of the Sexually Mature Female: An Illustrated Anatomical Guide leering at him in faded gold block print. Raoul averted his eyes. For a gentleman to even step foot into an establishment such as this, with its wax models of things no human eye should ever see and books with titles even more lewd than the one in front of him, well, it was unseemly to the point of absurdity. The wall full of diplomas and commendations from prestigious English universities was the only thing keeping him from fleeing the whole sordid place. A line of discreet inquiry had led him here with promises that there was no one better to help get to the bottom of the matter, but now Raoul was beginning to wonder if the man was nothing but a perverse quack. A perverse quack who couldn't even bother to be on time.

The door opened with a bang.

"Ah, Monsieur...hmm, I'm afraid I don't have a name for you here," said a graying, slope-shouldered man, glancing at a sheaf of papers as he bustled into the room. "My apologies for making you wait."

"None needed," Raoul fibbed, standing. "And no name, if you please. Monsieur will do just fine."

"I see." The doctor peered at Raoul over the rim of his spectacles for a moment, then dropped the papers onto the desk and shuffled them into a messy pile. He gestured to the creaky leather chair. "Please, sit. I, as you may have rightfully assumed, am Dr. Simmons. And you...you are here because you are desperate."

Raoul scoffed, taken aback. "Well, that's quite a way to put it."

"Perhaps. But I'm correct, no?"

Raoul considered him through narrowed eyes for a long moment, while the doctor stared back mildly. Finally, Raoul's shoulders slumped. "Yes...you are correct."

Simmons leaned back in his chair, a sympathetic smile stretching his face. "And I'm very sorry to be, but I am also pleased to tell you that you've come to the right man. Let's sort things out, hmm? How long has it been?"

"Five years."

The doctor hunched over a fresh sheet of paper and began scratching away. "And what steps have you taken so far in search of a diagnosis?"

"My wife has seen the family physician, and he found nothing obviously the matter. He prescribed rest and mineral baths."

A sharp bark of a laugh burst forth from Simmons. "Of course he did. And as for yourself?"

"What do you mean?" asked Raoul, genuinely puzzled.

"The doctor found nothing amiss with you?" Looking up from his paper for the first time, Simmons cocked an eyebrow at Raoul's quizzical expression. "Do you mean to tell me you haven't been examined?"

"Examined? Of course not! Why should I be? I have no... I mean to say, we have no problems when it comes to conjugal..." The room was suddenly much too hot.

"Ah, you mean to say that you are able to maintain an erection and ejaculate upon completion," the doctor said as impassively as if he'd been discussing the weather.

Raoul bolted up from his seat. "WHAT? How can you even- How could you-" he spluttered, speech and shock wrestling for control. "To speak to me in such a vulgar way! I've never-"

The doctor chuckled. "Oh, come on, chap! If you want to make a baby you're going to have to stop with the euphemisms and speak the language. I can't imagine you'd let a little medical terminology get to you." He slapped the table. "My word, you're worse than the English royal family, that stodgy old bunch!"

Grudgingly, Raoul returned to his chair, grumbling not-quite-under his breath.

Simmons wet the tip of his pen with his tongue, and held it hovering over the paper, still chuckling to himself. "So?"

"Yes," Raoul cleared his throat. "What you said. And we have been having frequent quick, vigorous...ah, intercourse," Raoul said, the word little more than a whisper, "just as the doctor suggested."

The doctor sat back in his chair and laughed from deep in his belly. "Ah, that's right. Because ability and fertility are one and the same, or so you have been led to believe." He leaned back onto his desk, adjusting his spectacles, suddenly all business. "This may come as a shock to you, but it's simply not true. A man may be able to perform, but it doesn't necessarily mean he can father a child."

A beat passed. Then, without a word, Raoul stood and retrieved his hat and overcoat from their hooks and turned to face the doctor, his hat pinched between rigid fingers. He spoke through clenched teeth. "You know, I can see I've been wasting both your time and my own. It's one thing to be vulgar and more than a little overfamiliar, but entirely another to be spouting outright lies. I was expecting quackery, and it appears I was not mistaken. Good day, sir."

With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Simmons batted away Raoul's little speech like a circling gnat, then placed both broad hands flat on his desk. "Oh, come now...sit back down." He sighed. "Yes, I know that my ideas may seem incredible, but so are my results. I'm easily a decade ahead of my colleagues, so the fact my theories and practices seem radical is completely true; you will not be able to get the answers that I can provide anywhere else," he said, and Raoul couldn't help the little leap of his heart. "You want anonymity," Simmons continued. "That leads me to believe that you're of nobility." A slight twitch of Raoul's eye provided confirmation. The doctor nodded. "I would take it farther and suppose that you are here because you need a child – a son – to secure your line. Now, you're welcome to walk out that door and take your chances with another doctor. But I can promise you that you can look all over Paris, London, hell, likely the entire world, and you will never find another doctor who can help you as I can." Simmons gestured to the door. "If you leave, there will be more patients, and I will be none the worse off. But you...you will be just as you were when you came in: desperate." Finished, he folded his hands and waited.

Raoul remained silent for a solid minute, attempting to stare down the presumptuous doctor. He couldn't walk away, not with so much at stake, not with so much to potentially regret. He let out his breath in a long, defeated sigh. "You're right, Doctor." Raoul resumed his position in front of the desk like a chastised pupil. "What needs to be done?"

"First off, we'll move to the next room and do a thorough exam. Afterward, I'll have you provide me with a sample of your ejaculate so that I can examine it for-" The doctor was cut off by the sound of Raoul choking and sputtering.

"And how do you expect to get that?" he asked between coughs, an eyebrow raised in defiant disbelief.

Simmons smirked at him, his eyes glittering with delight. "Oh, my dear fellow. I'm sure you'll be able to figure that one out. And here," he added, gesturing to the book on the corner of his desk. "A little something to give you inspiration, should you need it."

…

Three strong bourbons did the trick. The fire spread from his belly into his chest, spurring his heart to keep on beating and lifting his shoulders into a posture resembling confidence. It didn't do much for his gait, however, which wavered and wobbled as he tip-toed into the bedroom and froze in front of the bed. A full moon hung outside the window, silhouetting the graceful birch trees as they were swept back and forth by a gentle night's breeze. Watery moonbeams and tendrils of shadow rippled across the walls. Matched with his helpless swaying, the effect struck him as like being under water. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, rocking with each tipsy wave.

"Raoul?" his wife's voice called out in a mixture equal parts concerned, confused, and amused. "What are you doing?"

Raoul's eyes snapped open and he planted his feet to steady himself. "Oh, I'm sorry darling!" he said, working hard to keep his words crisp and clear and not as syrupy-slurred as they felt in his head. "Did I disturb you?"

Christine pushed herself up to lean back against the polished mahogany headboard, the white linen sheets pooling around her waist. "I was waiting up for you, but I must have fallen asleep. Where have you been? You said you'd be back in time for dinner." A slight crease had appeared between her brows.

With a sigh, Raoul dropped onto the edge of the bed. "I know, I'm sorry. I ran into François Jacquier, and he insisted that I stay for drinks and billiards." The lie came easily, thanks to the hours of practice. "I should have sent word. Do you forgive me?"

A smile twitched at the edge of her mouth. "It's nothing. I hope you had a nice time."

His eyes now accustomed to the low light, Raoul took notice of his wife's slightly swollen eyes and the unmistakable, too-familiar impression that she was carrying a heavy load upon her shoulders. His eyes drifted across to the nightstand, where a pen and ink sat in the midst of a nest of crumpled papers.

Instead of the usual heaviness he'd become accustomed to feeling in his chest, there was only a dull hollow sensation. "And you?" he asked, not looking at her.

"It was fine. I finally started working on a letter back to Meg, but..." She bit her lip and fell silent.

For several minutes, not a word passed between them as they sat listening to the rhythmic sweeping of the birch branches against the window pane.

Raoul gripped sweaty handfuls of the bedclothes. He feared that if he let go, there would be nothing to stop him from bolting from the room. He steeled himself. Like a pulling a thorn from your foot, it would be best if this news were delivered straight away; at least, that was the mantra he'd repeated to himself sometime during the second drink.

"Christine, I..." His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, until he could feel the burning acid from his stomach begin to rise up his throat. He flung himself forward, doubling over, begging the contents of his stomach to stay put.

"Raoul, are you sure you're well?" Christine leaned across the bed towards him, then paused, frowning. "I can smell the alcohol on you. Did you have too much to drink?"

He knew he was being a coward, but at the moment, he didn't care. He was going to take the out he'd been offered. He raised his head just enough to glance at her. "You know, darling, I must have. I think I'd better go get something to settle my stomach. I'll stay in one of the other bedrooms tonight - I don't want to disturb you."

"You're sure?" Her eyes were skeptical.

"Quite. Don't worry, love." She settled back in bed, brow still furrowed. Raoul planted a tight kiss upon her forehead and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Don't ever worry. I love you, so very much." She raised an incredulous eyebrow. After a beat too long, he managed a chuckle he hoped didn't sound as artificial as it felt. "Don't mind me. Drinking makes me silly. Good night." And with that he backed out of the room with an apologetic half-smile and a blown kiss.

…

With the glowing orange tongues of flame from the library's fireplace lapping at his back, Raoul gripped the neck of a cut-crystal decanter and sloshed its contents into a short glass. He thumbed an amber droplet off of his shirt-front as he downed the burning sweet liquid in one long swallow.

'Well, Monsieur. There is one bit of good news I can give you: we needn't investigate any further.' The doctor's jaw was set, but his restless hands never stopped moving, gathering papers, straightening pens and cufflinks.

'I don't understand.'

Simmons averted his eyes for a fleeting moment. 'My friend, the microscope has shown me that you are, quite unfortunately, sterile.'

Raoul blinked blinding white spots from his eyes. 'What?'

'There were absolutely no live sperm in the sample I examined. No live sperm, no baby,' the doctor said, jerking his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. 'It's not a wholly uncommon phenomenon, regrettably, but there you have it. I haven't seen your wife, so I couldn't say conclusively, but it seems the problem lies on your end.'

Raoul felt his head shaking back and forth. 'No, I'm sorry, but this is simply ludicrous! I don't believe it. Look again!'

The doctor's spine stiffened. 'My dear sir, I could look a hundred times, and the results would still be the same. There are many explanations for this. A fever you had as a child, perhaps? An infection? You don't appear to be suffering from Syphilis-'

'How dare you! To imply that-' Raoul was on his feet.

'Pardon me,' said the doctor, raising a conciliatory hand, 'but you'd be in the small minority of Parisians who've avoided it. No disrespect intended. In any case, try not to let this diagnosis threaten your masculinity. It has nothing to do with it'

Raoul swatted the words away. 'I don't care about that. Just tell me how to fix it.'

'Fix it?' The doctor sounded genuinely perplexed.

Raoul's mouth was burning, but it didn't hurt enough. He refilled his glass and drained it before the decanter even hit the tray. He held the empty glass up before the dying fire, watching the flames writhe within as if they were trapped inside the crystal.

'Money is no object,' said Raoul, already reaching for his billfold, 'so if there's some medicine, or operation, or-'

'Monsieur. Let me be quite clear.' The doctor looked grave, but there was a set to his mouth which Raoul thought almost resembled a smirk. 'There is no "fix". It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'

The cup twitched in his hands, daring him to smash it against the smoldering logs, reigniting the flames in a shower of crystal shards. But in the end Raoul simply deflated, defeated, and refilled the glass once more.