" "I am literally killing myself," he said. "You must
care me of drinking coffee; I reckon upon you." His room-mate suggested
to him that they should close the windows, draw the curtains, and light
the lamp in the daytime, to deceive habit by counterfeiting night. They
made the attempt in vain. The roar of a great city penetrates through
wall and curtain. They could not work. Inspiration ceased to flow.
Murger returned to his protracted vigils, and to the stimulus of coffee,
and never more attempted to break away from them. This sort of life, his
frequent privations, his innumerable disappointments, drove him in good
earnest to the hospital. He announces it in this way to a friend:--
"_Hospital Saint Louis, 23 May, 1842_.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--Here I am again at the hospital. Two days after
I sent you my last letter I woke up feeling as if my whole body
were on fire. I felt as if I were enveloped in flames. I was
literally burning. I lighted my candle, and was alarmed by the
spectacle my poor self presented. I was red from my feet to my
head,--as red as a boiled lobster, neither more nor less. So I
went to the hospital this morning, as early as I could go, and
here I am,--Henry IV.
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