“But,” said Hamilton, “I do not see Doctor Berger—why have you not sent for him?”
“Because I am here, and not in my own house, and he tells everything to his chattering wife, who relates, with interest, all she hears to whoever will listen to her.”
“But why are you here?” asked Hamilton.
A violent spasm put an end to the conversation, nor was it possible to renew it. Zedwitz hourly became worse, Hamilton proportionably anxious. At length he sent not only for Doctor Berger, but also for his friend Biedermann, and when they had declared Zedwitz’s case almost hopeless, he wrote as he had been desired to Edelhof, and employed his servant Hans as courier.
Late in the evening Zedwitz lay motionless from exhaustion. Biedermann had more than once held a feather under his nostrils to ascertain if he still breathed. Hamilton rose slowly from his station by the bed, and walked cautiously to one of the small windows. On reaching it, he stumbled over a large telescope which was pointed against a round hole, evidently cut in the curtain—he was about to remove the telescope to avoid a recurrence of the noise which he had just made, but, on second thoughts, he seated himself on a chair conveniently placed beside it, and applied his eye to the glass.
In a moment, he was in Madame Rosenberg’s drawing-room; the muslin curtains were not closed, and he saw the preparations for the rubber of whist—the candles and counters arranged, the entrance of the Hoffmanns, accompanied as usual by Raimund. The latter soon seated himself at the pianoforte, and from the different movements of his person and hands, Hamilton tried to imagine the music to which the others (not the card-players) listened apparently with the most profound attention. He had heard so much from Hildegarde of her cousin’s extraordinary talent for music, that he expected to see her immediately move towards him. Great was, therefore, his surprise, when she walked to the window most distant from him, and drawing still further aside the small transparent curtains, turned her face upwards exactly in the direction of the window from which he was looking out. He could not any longer see her features, but he imagined her looking at him, and he involuntarily pushed back his chair. Did she know where he was? Or had she already known that Zedwitz was in her neighbourhood? He tried to remember if she had been in the habit of going to the window—he believed not—but he recollected her immediate recognition of Zedwitz in the street the evening before. The scene on the stairs recurred to his memory with extraordinary exactness, and a sudden suspicion, like a flash of lightning, made him see Zedwitz as his midnight traducer. He strode towards him, but the angry question died on his lips, when he beheld the livid features convulsed with pain. Zedwitz was not only perfectly conscious of his dangerous state, but everything passing around him; he glanced towards the window, and asked in a low hoarse voice, “Have you seen her?”
“Yes, she is looking at the windows of this room.”
A long silence ensued, and then Hamilton was called out of the room to speak to old Hans, who had been sent by Hildegarde to make inquiries about Zedwitz.
“How does Mademoiselle Hildegarde know that we are here?” asked Hamilton.
“She inquired of my son this morning when he was packing your clothes. She hopes that you will take care of yourself, and says you must be sure to smell this little silk thing, as it will save you from infection.”