Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollected I had a letter to write which could not be put off.  One of my attic neighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it.  He is a cheerful old man, and has a passion for pictures and prints.  He comes home almost every day with a drawing or painting—­probably of little value; for I know he lives penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him shows his poverty.  His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, and his widow—­left without any means, and with an old mother and a child—­had written to beg for a home.  M. Antoine asked me first to translate the letter, and then to write a refusal.  I had promised that he should have this answer to-day:  before everything, let us fulfil our promises.

The sheet of “Bath” paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into the ink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when I perceive that I have not my dictionary.  Now, a Parisian who would speak English without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings; the ground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step.  I run then to the bookbinder’s, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in the square.

The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking, and I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger.  This latter has a violent fever and delirium.  Pierre looks at him perplexed and out of humor.  I learn from him that his comrade was not able to get up in the morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.

I ask whether they have sent for a doctor.

“Oh, yes, indeed!” replied Pierre, roughly; “one must have money in one’s pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead of savings.”

“But you,” said I, rather astonished; “are you not his friend?”

“Friend!” interrupted the bookbinder.  “Yes, as much as the shaft-horse is friend to the leader—­on condition that each will take his share of the draught, and eat his feed by himself.”

“You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?”

“Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as I’m going to the ball.”

“You mean to leave him alone?”

“Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville—­[A Parisian summer resort.]—­because this fellow is lightheaded?” asked Pierre, sharply.  “I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyer’s.  Those who are sick may take their broth; my physic is white wine.”

So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume of a waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.

In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man who lay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with the thoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hear me.  At last his coarse selfishness provoked me.  I began reproaching instead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for the consequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.