We helped him into the adjoining bedroom and into the big four poster. He sank back among the pillows with an air of utter weariness. By a strong will he had kept himself up and about. He had exerted every power at his command to conquer his growing weakness. He had hoped to win and had determined, as a last resort, that stimulants and medicine would save the day. Then, when he discovered it to be beyond his strength, he surrendered completely. I looked into his face, outlined against the whiteness of the linen, and for the first time noticed that he appeared old. As aged as old Prosper himself, whose alarmed countenance stared questioningly at me upon every turn.
I prepared his medicine and yelled the directions into Prosper's deaf ears. Then I placed a chair by the bed and sat down, taking a thin fevered hand into my own.
"My friend," said I to the Abbé, "you must be very quiet. You need rest. A few weeks of peace and good food should start you well on toward recovery."
"One moment, Monsieur Doctor," said he with a weary gesture of the hand, "I've a request."
"Certainly. What is it?" I asked.
"Do you think I shall be ill for any length of time?"
"I shall know more about that to-morrow," was the reply.
"Yes, I know," he smiled. "But remember that I am not a child. I'm an old man—at least I feel it—and life is not as alluring as it was once. Tell me frankly, shall I be very sick?"
"It is more than likely, Monsieur," I answered.
"More than likely—more than likely," he repeated reflectively, "and who knows save the good God—and who knows?"