“Where is my old Schiller?” inquired I. He had stopped outside in the gallery.
“I am here—I am here!” was the answer. He came towards the table, and, feeling my pulse, hung over me as a father would over his child with anxious and inquiring look. “Now I remember,” said he, “to-morrow is Thursday.”
“And what of that?” I inquired.
“Why! it is just one of the days when the doctor does not attend, he comes only on a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Plague on him.”
“Give yourself no uneasiness about that!”
“No uneasiness, no uneasiness!” he muttered, “but I do; you are ill, I see; nothing is talked of in the whole town but the arrival of yourself and friends; the doctor must have heard of it; and why the devil could he not make the extraordinary exertion of coming once out of his time?”
“Who knows!” said I, “he may perhaps be here to-morrow,—Thursday though it will be?”
The old man said no more, he gave me a squeeze of the hand, enough to break every bone in my fingers, as a mark of his approbation of my courage and resignation. I was a little angry with him, however, much as a young lover, if the girl of his heart happen in dancing to press her foot upon his; he laughs and esteems himself highly favoured, instead of crying out with the pain.
CHAPTER LXI.
I awoke on Thursday morning, after a horrible night, weak, aching in all my bones, from the hard boards, and in a profuse perspiration. The visit hour came, but the superintendent was absent; and he only followed at a more convenient time. I said to Schiller, “Just see how terribly I perspire; but it is now growing cold upon me; what a treat it would be to change my shirt.”