Since the winter, which they had passed at the Hôtel Kulm at the Dorf, save for a break of two months, April and May, when the one had returned to Vienna and the other to Frankfort, they had repaired to Doctor Karl Ehbehard twice a week. Of the two Freytag brothers one only seemed to be ill, because in spite of his thirty-five years his tall figure was bent, his slender shoulders beneath his navy-blue coat formed a curve, his breast beneath the white woollen waistcoat with the gold buttons seemed as narrow as that of a bird. Already his black hair was scanty and always seemed to be moist; beneath the eyebrows the eyes were hollow. But underlying all this was a fineness of feature, a sweetness of expression, and a lordliness of manner that made Max Freytag even more interesting. The other brother, younger by four or five years, seemed most healthy. Of middle stature, fat, with a rather thick throat and neck, very fair with heavy moustaches and bright hair, Ludwig Freytag had a good-natured, healthy, middle-class appearance.
Max first began to relate in German all that had happened to him during the three days that he had not been to Villa Ehbehard. He spoke slowly with a rather suave voice, saying that every degree of fever had vanished, that the cough was less, but that he was not sleeping and eating, that he was not digesting and could not contrive to conquer the insomnia. The doctor listened, with his hands on the arms of his chair, motionless and indifferent.
"Is Frau Freytag still with you?" he suddenly asked.
"She is still with me."
"It is a grave imprudence and great sacrifice."
"I know it is," murmured Max Freytag; "but I can't prevent her. I have tried, and I cannot."
"She loves you, and you love her?" asked the doctor harshly.
"Yes," murmured the other, in an even lower voice.
"Why did you marry her when you were ill?"
"I did not wish to marry her because I knew I was ill. She wished to marry me because I was ill."