With his head bowed on his breast, dragging his footsteps, Othomar returned to his room. He stayed there for hours, sitting silently, gloomily, in the same attitude; as usual, he did not appear at dinner and hardly ate what Andro brought him. Then he went to lie down on his couch, took up a book to read, but put it down again and raised himself up, as though with a sudden impulse:
"Why not now?" he thought. "Why keep on postponing it?..."
Night fell, but the upper corridors of the palace were not yet lighted; dragging his fatigue through this dusky shadow, Othomar went to the emperor's anterooms. The chamberlain announced him.
Oscar sat at his writing-table, pen in hand.
"Am I disturbing you, papa? Or can I speak to you?"
"No, you're not disturbing me.... Have you been to see mamma?"
"Yes, this afternoon; she was pretty well, but Berengar's temperature was higher."
The emperor glanced up at him:
"Worse than this morning?"
"I don't know: he was rather feverish."