On March 26, 1836, the contralto's marriage with Monsieur Malibran was finally annulled by the courts of Paris. This unworthy husband, soon after her return to Europe, had heard of her success in the French capital and followed her thither, demanding a share of her professional emoluments. With this claim she very properly refused to comply. He had obtained her hand by means of deception, and she had acquitted herself of any claim he might have had as her husband, by resigning in favour of his creditors the property which had been settled on her.
Three days after the marriage had been annulled, she was wedded to Charles de Bériot, the violinist, and we read that "the Queen of France presented the bride with a costly agraffe, embellished with pearls."
Next day de Bériot and his wife arrived at Brussels, and shortly afterwards were heard there for the first time together at a concert given for the benefit of the Polonais, and in another performance at the Theatre Royal.
Then came that fatal day in April when the singer had a terrible fall from her horse, being dragged some distance along the road and receiving injuries to her head from which she never recovered, though her wonderful energy enabled her to disregard the results for a time. She retired to Brussels, and went thence to Aix-la-Chapelle, where she gave two concerts with de Bériot.
In September they made a rapid journey from France, arriving at Manchester on Sunday the 11th, where she had been engaged as the principal attraction for the Festival. The same evening she sang no less than fourteen pieces in her room at the hotel to please some Italian friends. On the Monday she took part in the opening performance. Next day she was weak and ill, but nevertheless sang afternoon and evening. On the Wednesday her condition became still more critical, but she managed to render "Sing ye to the Lord" with thrilling effect; and this was the last sacred piece she ever sang, for that same evening brought her grand career to its tragic close.
The scene was one which none forgot who were present on that fatal night.
Before Maria Malibran had even reached the hall she had already fainted several times. Yet with an indomitable courage she nerved herself to go through the coming ordeal. With tears in their eyes, her friends begged her to return without attempting the strain for which she was so ill-prepared. But no; Maria Malibran refused to break faith with the public whom she had served so long, so gloriously. Even though her heart was chilled with presage of impending doom, she forced herself to enter on her self-appointed task, and carried it through with such success that when her final duet had been sung, "Vanno se alberghi in petto," none who had listened to that rich contralto voice guessed that they had been present at the closing scenes of their favourite's career.
Her task was over, she had fought in an unequal combat and prevailed. But still an enraptured audience clamoured to hear her yet again, and the noisy demand grew ever more insistent, until Maria Malibran came forward to repeat the closing movement.
As she sang, an agonised expression came over her face, her limbs trembled, her efforts became more and more painful. It was the struggle of a brave woman against sinking nature, the vivid glare of an expiring lamp. Higher and higher rose the voice, paler and paler grew the singer. Then came a last wild note of despair: the swan song was ended, and Maria Malibran staggered from the platform, to sink exhausted into the arms of loving comrades.
A grateful public vied each with the other in doing honour to their heroine, but, alas! those thunders of applause fell on ears that heard them not. Maria Malibran lay hovering 'twixt life and death.