Balloquet angrily rolled himself up in his bedclothes. I seated myself beside the hearth, curious to see how it would end. Madame Philocome stared for a while at the centre-piece on the ceiling, then took a book from the shelves. If she began to read, the situation might be prolonged indefinitely.
After some time, Balloquet broke the silence by groaning as if he were in pain; I rose and went to the bedside.
"My friend," he said, with a wink that I understood, "is my face red in spots?"
"Why, yes—you have some blotches."
"Are the whites of my eyes yellow?"
"Very yellow!"
"The devil! Be kind enough to look at my tongue and tell me if there are any little swellings on it?"
He put out his tongue, and I exclaimed after examining it:
"It's covered with them!"
"Damnation! Then it must be that; I can't fool myself any longer. I know now what my trouble is. However, I can take care of myself."