“Yes, there is something else,” sharply said Monsieur Bonelle. “There is an asthma that will scarcely let me breathe, and a racking pain in my head that does not allow me a moment’s ease. But if you think I am dying, Ramin, you are quite mistaken.”
“No doubt, my dear friend, no doubt; but in the meanwhile, suppose we talk of this annuity. Shall we say one thousand francs a year.”
“What?” asked Bonelle, looking at him very fixedly.
“My dear friend, I mistook; I meant two thousand francs per annum,” hurriedly rejoined Ramin.
Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared to fall into a gentle slumber. The mercer coughed; the sick man never moved.
“Monsieur Bonelle.”
No reply.
“My excellent friend.”
Utter silence.
“Are you asleep?”