“Ei! he wants a schnapps, or something of the kind,” said Karl, who seemed to think the whole affair an excellent joke. “Look here, alter Narr!” he added; “you’ve been going without anything to eat, nicht?”
“I believe I have,” I assented, feebly. “But I’m all right; I’ll go home.”
Rejecting Karl’s pressing entreaties to join him at supper at his favorite Wirthschaft, we went home, purchasing our supper on the way. Courvoisier’s first step was toward the place where he had left the child. He was gone.
“Verschwunden!” cried he, striding off to the sleeping-room, whither I followed him. The little lad had been undressed and put to bed in a small crib, and was sleeping serenely.
“That’s Frau Schmidt, who can’t do with children and nurse-maids,” said I, laughing.
“It’s very kind of her,” said he, as he touched the child’s cheek slightly with his little finger, and then, without another word, returned to the other room, and we sat down to our long-delayed supper.
“What on earth made you spend more than twelve hours without food?” he asked me, laying down his knife and fork, and looking at me.
“I’ll tell you some time perhaps, not now,” said I, for there had begun to dawn upon my mind, like a sun-ray, the idea that life held an interest for me—two interests—a friend and a child. To a miserable, lonely wretch like me, the idea was divine.