CHAPTER XXV.
THE GARRET.
“Stop, stop, if you please,” cried Zedwitz’s servant to Hamilton, who was beginning to run down the street, “Count Max is not in his own house—he is here just opposite—at the brazier’s.”
“At the brazier’s!” exclaimed Hamilton, “what induced him to go there?”
“Don’t know, sir,” replied the man, “he has been lodging there the last week or two.”
“Lodging there?” repeated Hamilton, as he crossed the street, “that is an odd idea.”
The man opened the house-door with a latch-key, took up a candle which was burning on the staircase, and walked up to the very top of the house. They passed through two or three empty garrets before they reached the one which Zedwitz had chosen for his sleeping apartment. The furniture contrasted strangely with the whitewashed walls, sloping ceilings, and windows protruding from the roof. A handsome bedstead, wardrobe, sofa, several large arm-chairs, and tables covered with writing and drawing materials, found with difficulty, place in the ill-shaped room. A stranger was sitting by the bed; he rose as Hamilton approached.
“So they have brought you here, after all,” said Zedwitz; “I hope at least that you have been told the true state of the case—that you know that I have the worst description of cholera?”
“You know I do not consider it infectious,” replied Hamilton, “and if I can be of any use, I am prepared to remain with you.”
Zedwitz pressed his friend’s hand.
“If I am not better in a few hours,” he said slowly, “that is, when there is no hope of my recovery, you may write to Edelhof—I do not wish to see any of my family—not even Agnes—coming from the country, they would be too liable to infection.”