“Poor fellow! he has lost his senses,” said one.
“Ah, poor Wolstang,” observed another: “he ran deranged some weeks ago, and has been going about asking for himself ever since.”
“I assure you I am not dead,” said I, throwing myself upon my knees before my cousin, who was present.
“I know that, my good fellow,” was his answer, “but poor Stadt, you see, is gone for ever.”
“That is not Stadt—it is I—it is I—will you not believe me! I am Stadt—this is not me—I am not myself. For heaven’s sake suspend this funeral.” Such were my exclamations, but they produced no other effect but that of pity among the bystanders.
“Poor unfortunate fellow, he is crazed. Get a porter, and let him be taken home.”
This order, which was given by my cousin himself, stung me to madness, and, changing my piteous tones for those of fierce resistance, I swore that “I would not turn out for any man living. I would not be buried alive to please them.” To this nobody made any reply, but in the course of a minute four stout porters made their appearance, and I was forced from the house.
Returning to Wolstang’s lodgings, the old man was there in waiting, as he promised. “What,” said I with trepidation,—“what is the scheme you were to propose? Tell me, and avert the horrible doom which will await me, for they have refused to suspend the funeral.”
“My dear friend,” said he in the most soothing manner, “your case is far from being so bad as you apprehend. You have just to write your name in this book, and you will be yourself again in an instant. Instead of coming alive in the grave, you will be alive before the coffin-lid is put on. Only think of the difference of the two situations.”
“A confounded difference indeed,” thought I, taking hold of the pen. But at the very moment when I was going to write, I observed above the following words:—