Car. But, poor man, how is he to blame? If God did not wish——
Dol. Ah! yes, that’s true. It is not Don Timoteo’s fault. It was God’s disposition that Carmen should have no more breathing powers than those of a little pigeon, and we must be resigned.
Car. Well, that’s what I say. But Lazarus is not coming. You’ll see that I shall have to go away before he comes. And, if he comes and sets to work, I shall be as little likely to see him to-night.
Dol. No; he has not written for some days. The excess of work has fatigued him. This constant thought is very wasting.
Car. But is he ill? (With great anxiety.)
Dol. No, child; fatigue, and nothing more.
Car. Yes; he is ill. I noticed that he was sad, preoccupied, but I thought, “There, it is that he does not love me, and he does not know how to tell me so.”
Dol. What things you imagine! Neither the one nor the other. My Lazarus ill! Do you think that if he had been so I would not have set in motion all the first medical faculty here, and in Madrid, and in foreign parts? In any way, however (somewhat uneasily), you are right; he is very late.
Car. Did he go to the theatre?
Dol. No, to dine with some friends.