Paul, who always saw him when he came to Berlin, used to ask whether the book was not yet ready.

Dorfling gave no answer, but his pale face grew paler, and an expression of pain came to his eyes.
Barinskoi, who now sponged on Dorfling just as he had previously done on Wilhelm, giving them in fact turn and turn about, had the bad taste to make jokes continually about the book, at one time calling it the Holy Grail, another time comparing it to the diamond country of Sindbad's tale, and in a hundred ways making vulgar and sceptical jokes.

On one of his outbreaks of dissipation he had disappeared far longer than usual, and on his return he looked more miserable than ever.

Dorfling made some kindly inquiries, and learned that he was recovering from an attack of inflammation of the lungs, and Barinskoi, by way of showing gratitude, remarked, "The doctors gave me up, but I held out, as I do not mean to die until I have read your book." Dorfling, with a contemptuous look, turned his back on him.
One day, soon after the Easter of 1874, Dorfling brought his friends a great piece of news.

The book was ready, it was even in the press, and would be published in a few days by a large firm, but he wanted to present them with copies before the book appeared at the shops.