“Oh,” he said, “that’s Tous-les-deux. We all call her that up here, because it’s the only thing she says. Mexican, you know; doesn’t know a word of German and hardly any French, just a few scraps. She has been here for five weeks with her eldest son, a hopeless case, without much longer to go. He has it all over, tubercular through and through, you might say. Behrens says it is much like typhus, at the end⁠—horrible for all concerned. Well, two weeks ago the second son came up, to see his brother before the end⁠—handsome as a picture; both of them were that, with eyes like live coals⁠—they fluttered the dovecots, I can tell you. He had been coughing a bit down below, but otherwise quite lively. Well, he no sooner gets up here than he begins to run a temperature, high fever, you know, 103.1°. They put him to bed⁠—and if he gets up again, Behrens says, it will be more good luck than good management. But it was high time he came, in any case, Behrens says.⁠—Well, and since then the mother goes about⁠—whenever she is not sitting with them⁠—and if you speak to her, she just says: ‘ Tous les deux! ’ She can’t say any more, and for the moment there is no one up here who understands Spanish.”