He thought of his debts and of Eleonore:
"I'll try," he whispered, in despair.
She promptly rewarded him with a smile; he went, hurried away again, with his eternal air of fussy importance, because of his young imperial master, who was so sadly ill. In the anteroom he found the chamberlain on duty:
"Would the prince be willing to see me?"
The chamberlain shrugged his shoulders:
"I'll ask," he said.
He speedily returned: the prince had sent word that Dutri could come in.
Dutri entered. Othomar lay on a couch covered with tiger-skins, in front of his writing-table. He had grown thinner; his eyes were hollow, his complexion was wan; his neck protruded frail and wasted from the loose turn-down collar of his silk shirt, over which he wore a velvet jacket. In his hand he held an open book. Djalo, the collie, lay on the floor.
Dutri the voluble began to press his request in rapid sentences following close upon one another's heels....
"The duchess?" repeated Othomar, faintly. "No, no...."