“You shall directly, only you must restrain your feelings, and on no account disturb him. He is so ill, it would kill him outright if you did.”
And he told him why it was he was so glad he had come: because, if their friend chanced to
arouse, it would not excite him so much to see Villemet, as it would to see any one else. “I only wish you could stop all night,” he added.
“So I can. The major said I might if you wanted me; but I did not like to intrude myself upon you.”
And they two kept watch all through the night, hearing the church-clock, close by, strike every hour; Cosin keeping out of sight, and Villemet sitting where the eyes of the patient might more easily see him, should they ever open again.
The fever increased. Restlessness began. Then a murmur, very faint, startled them; but it was nothing. Louder and articulate words came next; and delirium set in, lasting many weary hours. He was in France—always in France. He spoke of his mother; was talking to her: called her by name. But he never once mentioned the name Elise.
A tear came into Villemet’s eye when he heard his poor friend express his joy at seeing
his mother—he thought of his own—but he dashed it away. Why be ashamed, strong man? It becomes the brave to weep sometimes. Only noodles never do so. There must be brains to produce tears, and a heart too: and noodles have neither.
This went on for many hours. They wanted Villemet to take some rest, but he refused. He dosed in his chair, but the slightest sound awoke him: a sentinel at the shrine of friendship. At length, on the third day in the early morning, the eyes of the sick man opened, and fully rested on the familiar face of his friend. Instantly, but without any startling haste, Villemet was on his knee beside him, looking at him with a placid smile, as if nothing had happened.
“I have been so happy. I have been to France, and seen the old place—and my mother. But is it not strange? I never saw her, E—.” And the eyes closed again, and the voice sank out.