The distracted young man never forgot that night. The German at dawn, crying, "Air, air!" got up, and despite all De Courval could do staggered out to the upper porch and lay uncovered on a mattress upon which De Courval dragged him. The milk and food came, and at six o'clock Stephen Girard.
"I have been up all night," he said; "but here is a black to help you."
To De Courval's delight, it was old Cicero, who, lured by high wages given to the negro, whom even the pest passed by, had left the widow's service.
"Now," said Girard, "here is help. Pay him well. Our friend will die, I fear; and, sir, you are a brave man, but do not sit here all day."
De Courval, in despair at his verdict, thanked him. But the friend was not to die. Cicero proved faithful, and cooked and nursed and René, as the hours of misery went on, began to hope. The fever lessened in a day or two, but Schmidt still lay on the porch, speechless, yellow and wasted, swearing furiously at any effort to get him back to bed. As the days ran on he grew quiet and rejoiced to feel the cool breeze from the river and had a smile for René and a brief word of cheer for Girard, who came hither daily, heroically uncomplaining, spending his strength lavishly and his money with less indifference. Schmidt, back again in the world of human interests, listened to his talk with René, himself for the most part silent.
Twice a day, when thus in a measure relieved, as the flood served, De Courval rowed out on the river, and came back refreshed by his swim. He sent comforting notes by Cicero to his mother and to Mrs. Swanwick, and a message of remembrance to Margaret, and was careful to add that he had "fumed" the letters with sulphur, that things were better with Schmidt, and he himself was well. Cicero came back with glad replies and fruit and milk and lettuce and fresh eggs and what not, while day after day three women prayed at morning and night for those whom in their different ways they loved.
One afternoon Dr. Rush came again and said it was amazing, but it would have been still better if he had been let to bleed him, telling how he had bled Dr. Mease six times in five days, and now he was safe. But here he considered that he would be no further needed. Schmidt had listened civilly to the doctor with the mild, tired, blue eyes and delicate features; feeling, with the inflowing tide of vigor, a return of his normal satisfaction in the study of man, he began, to De Courval's joy, to amuse himself.
"Do you bleed the Quakers, too?" he asked.
"Why not?" said the doctor, puzzled.
"Have they as much blood as other people? You look to be worn out. Pray do not go. Sit down. Cicero shall give you some chocolate."