'Feeling her humanity appealed to, the Countess volunteers
to make the lemonade herself. My Lord takes the Courier
by the arm, leads him aside, and whispers these words to him:
"Watch her, and see that she puts nothing into the lemonade;
then bring it to me with your own hands; and, then, go to bed,
if you like."
'Without a word more to his wife, or to the Baron, my Lord leaves
the room.
'The Countess makes the lemonade, and the Courier takes it to his master.
'Returning, on the way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels,
he says, so giddy, that he is obliged to support himself
by the backs of the chairs as he passes them. The Baron,
always considerate to persons of low degree, offers his arm.
"I am afraid, my poor fellow," he says, "that you are really ill."
The Courier makes this extraordinary answer: "It's all over with me, Sir:
I have caught my death."
'The Countess is naturally startled. "You are not an old man,"
she says, trying to rouse the Courier's spirits. "At your age,
catching cold doesn't surely mean catching your death?" The Courier
fixes his eyes despairingly on the Countess.
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