‘Let us move on,’ said he, in a voice scarcely articulate, while the sickness of death seemed to work in his features.
‘You are ill,’ said I; ‘we had better wait——’
‘No, not here—not here,’ repeated he anxiously; ‘in a moment I shall be well again—lend me your arm.’
We walked on, at first slowly, for with each step he tottered like one after weeks of illness; at last he rallied, and we reached Cassel in about an hour’s time, during which he spoke but once or twice. ‘I must bid you a good-night here,’ said he, as we entered the inn; ‘I feel but poorly, and shall hasten to bed.’ So saying, and without waiting for a word on my part, he squeezed my hand affectionately, and left me.
It was not in my power to dismiss from my mind a number of gloomy suspicions regarding the baron, as I slowly wended my way to my room. The uppermost thought I had was, that some act of his past life—some piece of military severity, for which he now grieved deeply—had been brought back to his memory by the sight of the poor deserter. It was evident that the settled melancholy of his character referred to some circumstance or event of his life; nothing confirmed this more than any chance allusions he would drop concerning his youthful days, which appeared to be marked by high daring and buoyant spirits.
While I pondered over these thoughts, a noise in the inn-yard beneath my window attracted my attention. I leaned out, and heard the baron’s servant giving orders for post-horses to be ready by daybreak to take his master’s carriage to Meissner, while a courier was already preparing to have horses in waiting at the stages along the road. Again my brain was puzzled to account for this sudden departure, and I could not repress a feeling of pique at his not having communicated his intention of going, which, considering our late intimacy, had been only common courtesy. This little slight—for such I felt it—did not put me in better temper with my friend, nor more disposed to be lenient in judging him; and I was already getting deeper and deeper in my suspicions, when a gentle tap came to my door, and the baron’s servant entered, with a request that I would kindly step over to his master, who desired to see me particularly. I did not delay a moment, but followed the man along the corridor, and entered the room, which I found in total darkness.
‘The baron is in bed, sir,’ said the servant; ‘but he wishes to see you in his room.’
On a small camp-bed, which showed it to have been once a piece of military equipment, the Baron was lying. He had not undressed, but merely thrown on his robe de chambre and removed his cravat from his throat; his one hand was pressed closely on his face, and as he stretched it out to grasp mine, I was horror-struck at the altered expression of his countenance. The eyes, bloodshot and wild, glanced about the room with a hurried and searching look, while his parched lips muttered rapidly some indistinct sounds. I saw that he was very ill, and asked him if it were not as well he should have some advice.
‘No, my friend, no,’ said he, with more composure in his manner; ‘the attack is going off now. It rarely lasts so long as this. You have never heard perhaps of that dreadful malady which physicians call “angina,” the most agonising of all diseases, and I believe the least understood. I have been subject to it for some years, and as there is no remedy, and as any access of it may prove fatal, life is held on but poor conditions——’
He paused for a second or two, then resumed, but with a manner of increased excitement.