'I would like to see him,' Don Crescenzio said suddenly.
They went into the small bedroom; it was poor and dirty like the study. Marzano, the advocate, lay on a wretched iron bed, raised on pillows, whose covers were of doubtful whiteness; a lump of ice was on his bald head, another on the bare, skeleton-like breast, and his thin, small body was covered by a brown horse-blanket. On the night table was a tumbler of water with a bit of ice in it; the dying man's right hand was wrapped in the blood-letting bandages. All his right side, from the face to the foot, was struck rigid, numb already, while his left hand went on trembling, trembling, and all the left side of his face often twitched convulsively. A confused stammering came from his lips; all his gentle, good-natured expression was gone, leaving on that old face, half belonging to death already, the marks of a passion that had got to be shameful.
'Signor Marzano! Signor Marzano!' Don Crescenzio called out, leaning over his bed.
The sick man set his eyes, veiled by a curious cloud, on the lottery-keeper's face, but the expression did not change nor the stammering stop.
'He doesn't recognise you,' said the cobbler, taking snuff.
Don Crescenzio left the room at once, feeling the nightmare of it weighing on his mind.
'You are his friend: will you leave him something?' the cobbler asked. 'I have only four francs; he will die like a dog.'
Then all Don Crescenzio's suppressed sorrow burst out.
'He owes me eight hundred francs, and I am ruined if I do not get it by Wednesday. He is dying; but I am left, and I am tortured. He will die; but my children will sleep on church steps in a month. He at least is dying, but we shall all come to desperate straits, you see.'
'Excuse me, I did not know,' the cobbler said, alarmed.