But it seemed to me that my charge was worse. I left him for a few moments, and seeking out the countess, spoke my mind.
“Frau Gräfin, Eugen must be sent for. I fear that Sigmund is going to die, and I dare not let him die without sending for his father.”
“I dare not!” said the countess.
She had met her husband, and was flung, unnerved, upon a couch, her hand over her heart.
“But I dare, and I must do it!” said I, secretly wondering at myself. “I shall telegraph for him.”
“If my husband knew!” she breathed.
“I can not help it,” said I. “Is the poor child to die among people who profess to love him, with the one wish ungratified which he has been repeating ever since he began to be ill? I do not understand such love; I call it horrible inhumanity.”
“For Eugen to enter this house again!” she said in a whisper.
“I would to God that there were any other head as noble under its roof!” was my magniloquent and thoroughly earnest inspiration. “Well, gnädige Frau, will you arrange this matter, or shall I?”
“I dare not,” she moaned, half distracted; “I dare not—but I will do nothing to prevent you. Use the whole household; they are at your command.”