“Come, my master,” he said, with his customary familiarity, a privilege granted to him alone, which he was never afraid of abusing, and for very sufficient reasons; “are we really dead this time? Haven’t you a single smile for your old Johan? one of those sweet little smiles that mean, ‘I bid defiance to disease, and I mean to bury all the fools who would like to see me go to the devil’?”
The baron tried in vain to gratify him; the victorious smile which he attempted to summon to his countenance proved a melancholy grimace, accompanied by a deep sigh.
“Anyhow, you understand me?” resumed Johan; “that is something.”
“Yes,” replied the baron, in a feeble voice; “but I am very ill this time! That ass of a doctor—”
And he tried to show his arm.
“He bled you?” said Johan. “He says that it saved your life; let us hope so: but you must exert your will; you know perfectly well that that it is your only remedy. Your will performs miracles!”
“I have none left.”
“No will? Nonsense! When you say that, it always means that you are very determined indeed about something; and I can tell you what you want now—that these two or three Italians—”
“Yes, yes, all of them,” rejoined the baron, with a gleam of energy.
“There, now!” resumed Johan, “I knew I could bring you round! Did you see the proof?—”