6
The crown-prince passed through the anteroom: one of the doctors stood dipping poultices into a basin of ice; a valet was bringing in a pail of fresh ice. The door of the bedroom was open and Othomar remained standing at the door. The little prince lay on his camp-bed, talking in a low, sing-song tone; the empress, pale, suffering, bearing up in spite of everything, sat beside him with Princess Thera.
The emperor exchanged brief words with the two other doctors, whose features were overcast with a stark hopelessness; a mordant anguish distorted Oscar's face, which became furrowed with deep wrinkles:
"My God, he doesn't know me, he doesn't know me!" Othomar heard the emperor complain.
"Nor me," murmured the empress.
"What can it be? What, what, what can it be?" sang the little prince; and his usually shrill little voice sounded soft as a bird's melody: it was as though he were playing by himself. "I'm to have a present from my brother, from my brother, something nice!" he sang on.
The empress could distinguish his words, but she did not understand; and when he went on to sing the name of the crown-prince, with his title:
"Othomar, O Othomar of Xara, of Xara!..." she turned to the door and gently implored:
"Othomar, he's calling your name; come, perhaps he will know you!"
Othomar approached; he went past the emperor and knelt down by the bed; a smile lit up Berengar's little face.