“The devil!” he exclaimed. “This too! It tastes like some beastly concoction of—of chloral.” He coughed and yawned again. Then he leaned his head against my bed. A few moments later he started up.
“The devil!” he repeated, rising to his feet. I saw him go to the little table on which Elise every evening left some coffee ready on a spirit lamp; he lit it, and I dreamily watched the thin blue waverings of the flame. While the coffee was heating Prilukoff constantly cleared his throat, with the same murmured oath. Now he poured the smoking coffee into a cup and sipped it. “By all the infernal powers—” he cried, and turned suddenly to look at me.
I did not dare to shut my eyes, much as I should have liked to do so. He came up to my bed and bending over me looked me in the face. Then he touched my shoulder.
“See here!”
I drooped my eyelids drowsily. “Yes, dear! What is it?”
“Just taste this coffee,” and he pushed the cup against my lips.
I sat up and with a smile took the cup from his hands.
“It burns,” I said, barely touching it with my lips and making a little grimace.
“Drink it!” he roared in a terrible voice, though his eyes were half shut as if he could not keep awake.
I took a sip of the coffee: it scraped my throat like a rake. I thought of Elise and understood. For a moment the idea flashed through my brain to say that I found nothing the matter with it. Then I changed my mind.