“I must get away to-morrow.... I must get away to-morrow!” he kept on repeating. ―――― By the end of the week the smell of food held no temptations for Fernet. Minetti stopped cooking. And when a glass of water was drawn from the faucet Fernet had difficulty in forcing his vision to answer the strain of a searching gaze. “When my sight fails me,” Fernet thought, dimly, “I shall either die of thirst or take the consequences.” When the doctor finally came again Fernet closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. “He seems thinner,” remarked the doctor, as if he had made an important discovery. “Well, to tell the truth,” replied the hunchback, “he has lost his appetite. I have fed him milk and eggs, but—” “There is nothing to do but be patient,” said the doctor. “Medicine will do him no good. Just rest and food. Even a little starvation will not hurt him. People eat too much, anyway.” At this Fernet opened his eyes and broke into a laugh that startled even Minetti. The doctor looked offended. “Well, he is in your hands,” the old fraud said, pompously, to the hunchback. “Just keep up the good work—” Fernet laughed again. “He is hysterical,” proclaimed the doctor, with an air of supreme wisdom. “It happens that way very often in nervous cases.” And he walked out with great solemnity. “Ah, I have offended him!” thought Fernet. “Well, now they will finish me—_together_!” ―――― There followed days of delicious weakness. Fernet lay for the most part wrapt in the bliss of silver-blue visions. It seemed as if years were passing. He built shining cities, received the homage of kings, surrendered himself to the joys of ripe-lipped beauties. There were lucid intervals shot through with the malignant presence of Minetti and the puttering visits of the doctor. But these were like waking moments between darkness and dawn, filled with the half-conscious joy of a sleeper secure in the knowledge of a prolonged respite. In such moments Fernet would stir feebly and think: “I must get away to-morrow!” And there would succeed almost instantly a languid ecstasy at the thought that to-morrow was something remote and intangible that would never come. At times the hunchback seemed like nothing so much as a heartless gaoler who, if he would, might open the door to some shining adventure. Gradually this idea became fixed and elaborated. Fernet’s sight grew dimmer and dimmer until he followed the presence of Minetti by the sounds he made.