One evening, after a day during which the fever had not left him for an instant, Paul looked about and saw that Bastringuette was alone in the room. She had gone into a corner, so that the invalid might not see her eat the piece of dry bread of which her evening meal consisted. Paul called her, and she hastened to his side after thrusting her bread into her pocket.
"What day is it?" he asked, fixing his eyes, bright with fever, on Bastringuette's.
"What day? This is Tuesday."
"No, not that; what day of the month?"
"Oh! it's the twenty-fourth."
"The twenty-fourth! Why, how long have I been sick?"
"It was the fifth you got so used up! I remember it very well; it was a Thursday."
"The fifth; so I've been here nineteen days?"
"Well, what if it was fifty? I can understand that it bores you to be sick, but ain't you well taken care of here? Don't Mamzelle Elina and I do all that's necessary, all the doctor says?"
"Ah! yes, my good Bastringuette—indeed you do too much! But to-morrow's the twenty-fifth. Great God! It can't be postponed. That thought, Bastringuette, is what gives me the fever and keeps me from getting well."