Not one of those historians heard him as I did; not one of them knew or even suspected the real character of that illustrious old man.
The prince went on. ‘I do not intend using the epitaph of my friend the Marquis de Bonnay for a long time to come. I’ll defer the business of cutting his clever lines into marble for a while.’[92]
Malfati, though strongly recommending great care, made it a point to reassure him, and to dismiss all idea of death.
‘It will have to come to that after all, I know. I was seriously thinking of it all night. Death suits many people. I once had the fancy of proving this in several articles I wrote hurriedly. I’ll touch them up and complete them later on. As for you,’ turning to us, ‘listen and look, in order to find out if you happen to belong to these categories; don’t worry about me. As for the doctor, it will serve him as a text when he wishes to preach resignation to his patients.’ Saying which, he took from under his pillow a book and began to read to us. Some of his reflections, apart from their original and piquant style, had also the merit of a comforting and gentle philosophic teaching.
After that short moral lecture, Malfati left us. Golowkin, in order to amuse the invalid, told him some of the incidents of his mission to China; the variety of the pictures seemed to brighten him. Gradually dismissing the possibility of any danger, he began to refer cheerfully to some of the circumstances of his young days.
‘When I was a child,’ he said, ‘the dragoons of the Ligne regiment carried me in turns in their arms. My fondness for soldiers dates from that period. It’s a kind of affection which, contrary to the other, has often been repaid to me in coin of sterling devotion.’
In spite of his cheerfulness, six or eight hours had sufficed to make him look gaunt and wan. He could no longer smile without an effort; there seemed to be a short but terrible struggle going on between him and bodily pain. Finally his courage and energy got the upper hand; pain was for the moment vanquished.
His daughter, the Comtesse Palfi, came in to administer the potions prescribed by Malfati; we left them. When Golowkin and I were outside on the ramparts, we did not pretend to disguise our uneasiness from each other. Golowkin was sincerely attached to the prince.
At eight the next morning I was at the prince’s with Griffiths, who, having all his life made the science of healing a particular study, felt only too pleased to assist one he liked so well. The prince was very depressed; the presentiment of his end made him sad. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘nature will not be balked. We must vacate the space we occupy in this world for some other people. We must make up our minds to it. Nevertheless, I feel this: the greatest sting of death is the fact of leaving those whom we love.’ I felt the tears getting into my eyes. ‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘don’t be afraid, the “camarde” will be mistaken once more.[93] To-morrow my pain will be gone like the dream of a night.’
Then he was silent for a few moments, as if pondering. ‘What a sad thing is the past,’ he remarked at last. ‘The recollection of it is horrid; if it has been a happy past, it’s hard to say to oneself, “I have been happy.” When one falls to thinking of one’s moments of glory and of happiness, of one’s first attempts, even of the games of childhood, the thoughts are sufficient to kill one there and then with regret. Nevertheless, if I could have my time over again, or could return on earth after my death, I should do almost everything I have already done. My poetry and my love-affairs are the greatest sins I have committed, and Heaven has never withheld its forgiveness for such errors. The only thing I should endeavour to do would be not to give the same persons a chance of being ungrateful to me. After all, I would only give others a chance....’