Throughout the day the greatest personages of Vienna, all the political and military celebrities and the sovereigns, sent at frequent intervals for news. The report of his illness had spread among all classes; the anxiety was general, and a large crowd gathered before his house, so intense was the interest in the remarkable man about to disappear. During the night, between the second and third day, his condition became rapidly and alarmingly worse. His family, bowed down with grief and dumb with despair, stood around his bed when Malfati came in. ‘I did not think,’ said the patient, ‘that I should make so much fuss at going. Truly, the uncertainty and briefness of our days are not worth the trouble of waiting.’ Then he began to talk with the greatest gaiety about the bequests he had made. ‘The inheritance will not be difficult to divide; yet, it was necessary to proceed in orderly fashion. In accordance with an ancient custom, I must leave something to my company of trabans. Well, I have left them my posthumous works; the gift is worth a hundred thousand florins.’
They tried to change the conversation in order to divert his thoughts from the subject of death, but he constantly returned to it. ‘I have always liked the end of Petronius,’ he said. ‘Bent upon dying as he had lived, in the lap of luxury, he made them play some charming music and recite some beautiful verses. I’ll do better than that: surrounded by those whom I love, I’ll breathe my last in the arms of friendship. Don’t be sad,’ he said a few moments later, ‘perhaps we’ll not part yet. One illness sometimes prevents a more serious one. Take heart; doubt is a most precious gift from nature. Besides, I am by no means convinced that the prophecy of Etrella is to be realised so soon.’
‘What prophecy, prince?’ asked Malfati.
‘It dates from my last journeys to Paris. The Duc d’Orléans, to whom I was much attached, for he could be a staunch friend, took me one day on leaving the Palais-Royal to a sorcerer, a fortune-teller, whom they called the “Great Etrella.” This Parisian gipsy was perched in a fifth floor in the Rue de Froid-manteau. He foretold to the Duc d’Orléans some surprising things to which my want of faith prevented me from paying much attention. As for me, he told me that I should die seven days after having heard a great noise. Since then I have heard the noise of two sieges, I have heard two powder-magazines blown up; and I did not die of the noise. I fancy that during the present week there has been no great noise, except about small things—rumours, balls, fêtes, and intrigues. Many people live by them and through them. I have not heard it stated that anybody died of them.’ He tried to smile. Suddenly, there was an access of great weakness, which frightened us. In a short time, though, he rallied once more. ‘I feel it,’ he said, ‘the soul has worn out its dress. The strength to live is gone; the strength to love you all remains.’
At these words, all his children flung themselves on the bed, kissing his hands and bedewing them with tears. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, drawing his hands away. ‘I am not a saint yet, children; or are you mistaking me for a relic?’
The joke produced a more painful sensation than the most agonising cry could have done. The doctor prevailed upon him to take a draught, which gave him some hours of peaceful sleep. When he awoke he had recovered his cheerfulness; the idea of death had vanished. He began even to jest about the terrible prognostics which, in spite of his weakness, he had overheard in the morning. ‘Malfati, the “camarde’s” messenger has given you to understand that she might pay me a visit this evening,’[94] he said. ‘A truce to that kind of gallant diversion. I have never broken my appointments, but I mean to break this one. Yes, I have adjourned the writing of the verses which, like Hadrian, I intend to address to my soul about to leave my body.’
There was a lighted candle on a piece of furniture near the window. ‘Blow that candle out,’ he said to his servant: ‘people can see it from the rampart; they’ll mistake it for a wax taper, and they’ll think I am dead.
‘Did not I tell you,’ he said, addressing himself to us, ‘that the verdicts of the faculty are not invariably without appeal. Decidedly, the newsmongers and idlers of the Graben will have to postpone their comments on my demise, at any rate this time. I hear that to keep their tongues and pens going they are spreading the rumour of the Empress of Russia’s pregnancy.’
He went on in the same tone, interrupting himself to discuss the plans of his journeys for the coming spring, and the travels he wished to complete. We, alas, were far from sharing his opinion, the ravages of the disease were too plainly discernible; practically there was no hope. Malfati when leaving had pronounced the situation to be exceedingly grave.
Towards the middle of the night the doctor’s apprehensions were fast being realised. The improvement of a few hours was all at once succeeded by a thorough prostration. Suddenly his strength seemed to revive; he sat up in bed and assumed a fighting attitude; his eyes were wide open, and shone with unusual brilliancy, he gesticulated violently and shouted: ‘Shut the door, put her outside, “la camarde,” the hideous hag.’ He was manifestly struggling with all his might against the ‘hideous hag’s’ grip, and gasping forth incoherent words, while we, standing by terror-stricken and paralysed with grief, could only answer him with sobs. This last effort exhausted him completely; he fell back unconscious. An hour later, God received his soul. It was the 13th December 1814.