The sky remained ashen.
Whether in London or Paris, air pollution seemed equally oppressive. Perhaps London's smog incidents had simply received more attention. Climate might have played a role, too—after all, London was likely colder than here.
'We got lucky, I suppose.'
Public awareness probably wasn't much better in either city. Now that I'd seen Paris's back alleys firsthand—arguably worse than London's—I shook my head unconsciously before glancing back.
The patients, already suffering for two days, came into view.
Most spent their waking hours vomiting or writhing in pain, so "stable" was far from an accurate description. The stench alone was unbearable, but their sunken eyes and gaunt faces painted a fuller picture of misery. The filth was so overwhelming that I longed to douse everything in disinfectant, yet even this chaos was an improvement.
'Three have already died.'
Cholera was notoriously deadly in its acute phase. Severe diarrhea led to dehydration, triggering multi-organ failure in the kidneys and liver. Others succumbed to sepsis, their weakened bodies offering no resistance.
For a fleeting moment, I regretted not having spoiled bread to feed them—but playing Russian roulette with contaminated food was no solution for those already dying.
'Another three are critical…'
Out of 101 initial patients, three had died, and three more teetered on the brink. A 6% mortality rate was alarming, but the worst was yet to come. By the end, we'd likely lose at least ten.
"Damn it all… This is hopeless. We might need morphine," muttered Liston, his earlier enthusiasm for mocking the "frogs" now replaced by gloom. Blundell wore the same expression. Even Alfred, Joseph, and Colin—youthfully naive until yesterday—had darkened.
Granted, their masks were splattered with filth, which might've contributed, but Britons and Frenchmen weren't so different. Watching people die under your care was never easy.
"Ugh…"
The sole silver lining was Dr. Jean-Pierre rallying to his feet. For an elderly man, his resilience was surprising—until I realized he'd likely just been poisoned like me. Still, his face was grim, and not solely due to his colleagues' suffering.
"This is dire," he croaked, his voice hoarse from dehydration.
Though exhausted, the gravity in his tone snapped us to attention.
"Just received word… Other hospitals are being flooded with patients."
"Other hospitals?"
I wasn't shocked. The river had been… off.
19th-century urban waterways were notoriously polluted, but the Seine was in a league of its own.
"Yes. Too many to count, but estimates suggest thousands."
"Thousands?"
Now that surprised me—though for different reasons than Liston. My historical knowledge was fuzzy, but a cholera outbreak of this scale in the 1830s? Surely it would've been documented.
'Am I misremembering?'
I wasn't a historian, after all. People assumed doctors knew everything about medicine, but in reality, we barely kept up with clinical training. Cross-disciplinary gaps were vast. Watching three doctors on YouTube fumble through trivia, viewers often called their reactions "adorably fake"—but no, we genuinely didn't know. My own awareness of this event came from random pre-med reading, not standard curriculum.
"How are they treating them?" Liston interjected sharply. His face had hardened—likely because he was piecing together the pathology. Science often looked absurd in hindsight, and his expression bordered on hostile.
"What can they do? Restrict fluids and let them lie there."
"That'll kill them all!"
"Cholera is deadly. Cursed disease." Jean-Pierre spat the words, eyeing his colleagues. Though his own diarrhea had subsided, his gaze suggested he expected most to end up in graves. A fair assumption—cholera did kill half its victims without proper treatment.
Now imagine layering 19th-century "medicine" on top.
'Total annihilation.'
Restricting fluids for diarrhea patients? I nearly screamed. Yet I stayed quiet, clinging to one hope.
"Trying to slaughter them all?"
"Huh?"
"Look here! Behold our achievements!" Liston barked, rising. Fatigue etched his face, but it only amplified his intimidation. Days of frustration had stoked his temper, and the sight of French obstinance fanned it further.
"Cholera typically kills on the first day, no?"
"W-Well, yes."
"Look at your brilliant colleagues. Despite our contrary methods, most survived! The dead? One refused treatment and fled. Adjusted for that, mortality's remarkably low!"
"But… tradition—"
"Recall Galileo! When tradition is scientifically disproven, it must be discarded!"
"This isn't proof—"
"Forgotten the microscope already? Those swarming particles are miasma's true form!"
"But miasma is… airborne—"
"You fucking imbecile!"
Liston snapped, smacking Jean-Pierre's skull. The man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
"Oops."
Liston patted his cheeks—ostensibly to revive him, though it looked more like a coup de grâce.
Thud.
The door burst open. A policeman I recognized from day one entered.
"Professor Liston, are you here?"
"What now?"
Liston casually stepped away from the body—ahem, Jean-Pierre—adopting an innocent expression. With patients already littering the floor due to bed shortages, the doctor's prone form didn't stand out.
"Ah, good! We heard about the cholera crisis… Your treatment seems more effective. Other hospitals should adopt it."
"Ah."
You little—
Could've led with that instead of getting punched.
Wait.
He almost died.
"But other hospitals won't listen. We've called a meeting—thought you'd be here, but where's Dr. Jean-Pierre?"
All eyes fell to the floor.
One hit had left him unconscious. I checked his pulse—still alive.
'Phew. Almost needed an alibi.'
With cholera's symptoms and no forensic science, a "cholera death" would've been plausible. But since he lived, adjustments were needed.
"Overworked, I suppose."
"Professor?"
"Wouldn't you agree?"
"Er, yes."
Liston then hoisted Jean-Pierre in a princess carry. The sheer strength required was staggering—enough to eclipse his audacity. My cowardice wasn't unique; everyone else stayed quiet too.
"Ah… Where…?"
"A carriage. You collapsed."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"I was arguing fiercely… But why does my head hurt?"
"You hit it when you fell."
"Ah."
Liston's smooth lie deceived his friend. Peering out the window, his lips twitched—even he felt guilty.
We rode in silence until arriving at a stately building. Inside, a crowd of irate doctors awaited.
"While we dawdle, impatient patients are drinking water!"
"Exactly! They'll die!"
Their grievances weren't entirely unfounded.