“What is the matter with him?”
“He does not say, but he has taken to his bed, neither eats nor drinks, and is sadly out of humour.”
I was touched; he was suffering and had no one to console him.
“I will write him a few lines,” exclaimed I.
“I will take them this evening, then,” said Tremerello, and he went out.
I was a little perplexed on sitting down to my table: “Am I right in resuming this correspondence?” was I not, just now, praising solitude as a treasure newly found? what inconsistency is this! Ah! but he neither eats nor drinks, and I fear must be very ill. Is it, then, a moment to abandon him? My last letter was severe, and may perhaps have caused him pain. Perhaps, in spite of our different ways of thinking, he wished not to end our correspondence. Yes, he has thought my letter more caustic than I meant it to be, and taken it in the light of an absolute and contemptuous dismission.
CHAPTER XLI.
I sat down and wrote as follows:—
“I hear that you are not well, and am extremely sorry for it. I wish I were with you, and enabled to assist you as a friend. I hope your illness is the sole cause why you have not written to me during the last three days. Did you take offence at my little strictures the other day? Believe me they were dictated by no ill will or spleen, but with the single object of drawing your attention to more serious subjects. Should it be irksome for you to write, send me an exact account, by word, how you find yourself. You shall hear from me every day, and I will try to say something to amuse you, and to show you that I really wish you well.”
Imagine my unfeigned surprise when I received an answer, couched in these terms: