As for the doctor, he was pathetically insistent.

“But you must get well!” he gesticulated.  “I am going to publish it, your operation.  It will make my fortune.  I shall at last be able to leave this hole of an Algiers and go to Paris!  You don’t know what I’ve done for you!  I’ve performed an operation on you that has never been performed successfully before.  I thought it had been done, but I found out afterwards my English confreres were right.  It hasn’t.  I’ve worked a miracle in surgery, and by my publication will make you as the subject of it famous for ever.  And here you are trying to die and ruin everything.  I ask you—­have you no human feelings left?”

At the conclusion of these lectures I would sigh and laugh, and stretch out a thin hand.  He shook it always with a humorous grumpiness which did me more good than the prospect of acquiring fame in the annals of the Ecole de Medicine.

Here am I, however, cured.  I have thrown away the stick with which I first began to limp about the garden, and I discourage Lola and Rogers in their efforts to treat me as an invalid.  Like the doctor, I have been longing to escape from “this hole of an Algiers” and its painful associations, and, when I was able to leave my room, it occurred to me that the sooner I regained my strength the sooner should I be able to do so.  Since then my recovery has been rapid.  The doctor is delighted, and slaps me on the back, and points me out to Lola and the manager and the concierge and the hoary old sinner of an Arab who displays his daggers, and trays, and embroideries on the terrace, as a living wonder.  I believe he would like to put me in a cage and carry me about with him in Paris on exhibition.  But he is reluctantly prepared to part with me, and has consented to my return in a few days’ time, to England, by the North German Lloyd steamer.  He has ordered the sea voyage as a finishing touch to my cure.  Good, deluded man, he thinks that it is his fortuitous science that has dragged me out of the Valley of the Shadow and set me in the Garden of Life.  Good, deluded man!  He does not realise that he has been merely the tool of the Arch-Jester.  He has no notion of the sardonic joke his knife was chosen to perpetrate.  That naked we should come into the world, and naked we should go out is a time-honoured pleasantry which, as far as the latter part of it is concerned, I did my conscientious best to further; but that we should come into it again naked at the age of eight-and-thirty is a piece of irony too grim for contemplation.  Yet am I bound to contemplate it.  It grins me in the face.  Figuratively, I am naked.

Partly by my own act, and partly with the help of Destiny (the greater jester than I) I have stripped myself of all these garments of life which not only enabled me to strut peacock-fashion in the pleasant places of the world, but also sheltered me from its inclemencies.

I had wealth—­not a Rothschild or Vanderbilt fortune but enough to assure me ease and luxury.  I have stripped myself of it.  I have but a beggarly sum remaining at my bankers.  Practically I am a pauper.