“Send for the Doctor,” cried Hamilton. “I shall be with you in a moment.”
On entering Mr. Rosenberg’s room, Hamilton found Hildegarde standing beside his bed, while Madame Rosenberg was walking up and down the room, gesticulating like a person in a state of mental derangement.
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton,” she exclaimed, the moment she perceived him, “tell me, only tell me that Franz has not got the cholera, and I shall be grateful as long as I live! It would be too hard were he to have it now, when people say there is nothing more to fear. Last week, only one man—quite a decrepit old man, died of it? I am sure Franz has only eaten too much supper yesterday evening. Don’t you think so? Say that he has not got the cholera, and I shall believe you implicitly.”
But Hamilton could not say so, nor unfortunately Doctor Berger either; the case was at once pronounced a bad one, and, in a fearfully short time, quite hopeless. Consternation and dismay pervaded the whole household, when, on the morning of the third day, poor Mr. Rosenberg was no more. Completely overpowered by the suddenness of her own bereavement, Madame Rosenberg retired to her room, unable to speak to anyone.
Major Stultz immediately undertook the necessary arrangements for the funeral, and gave directions for the printing of circular letters to announce the death to distant relations and friends, a custom which saves the mourning family the performance of a most painful duty. Hamilton took the two little boys to their sister Crescenz. Her married life had begun in anxiety and sorrow, and Hamilton felt some natural trepidation at seeing her again, under such painful circumstances; but her grief was of the most tranquil description, the tears flowed unrestrained over her round rosy cheeks, and when they ceased left not a trace behind. Although but a few days had elapsed since she had left her family, a not quite willing bride, she had already begun to repeat her husband’s words as oracles. Hamilton half smiled as he heard her: “Thank goodness, that she at least was provided for, and had a home! She hoped poor dear Hildegarde would not now begin to repent having refused such a man as Major Stultz, the more so, as that refusal precluded the possibility of her ever residing with them!”
Poor Hildegarde! She had not bestowed one thought, much less a regret, on Major Stultz. Hamilton, on his return, found her sitting in her room, perfectly motionless, with parched lips, and eyes devoid of tears. He hoped she had at length begun to think of herself—recommended her to try to eat something, and go to bed. She looked at him as if his words had not conveyed the slightest sense to her mind—walked uneasily up and down the room for a few minutes, and then said, with a shudder, “I am so afraid of his being buried alive! Do you think he was quite—quite dead? If I could only see him once more.”
“And who could be so cruel as to prevent you?” exclaimed Hamilton. “If it be any relief to your mind, I will remain in his room to-night?”
“In his room!” she cried, clasping her hands convulsively: “he is no longer there—they have taken him away to the deadhouse.”
“The deadhouse! Where is that?”
“In the burying-ground. They have watches there, I believe, but still he is among all the frightful corpses, and should he come to himself—imagine how horrible! You will go with me—you will let me see him once more? I cannot else believe that he is really dead!”