'Of what?'
'Of meningitis.'
An earthy pallor spread over the doctor's face, and two lines formed themselves about his lips. And he dared not make the Marquis any reproaches. Had he not himself forsaken the poor girl, though he had promised and sworn to save her? Had he not through pride left the delicate, sickly flower a prey to all moral and physical evils? Both of them were guilty, both.
'Let us start, then,' he said. They went out together, called for a cab, and had the hood put up, as if they wanted to hide their sorrow. They did not speak during the drive. Only whilst he bit at his spent cigar Dr. Amati from time to time asked some medical questions.
'How long has she had meningitis? is this the first day of it?'
'Yes; but she has had typhoid fever for nine days.'
'Had she high fever?'
'It went up to a hundred and four and a hundred and five.'
'Had she bad headaches?'
'Frightful headaches.'