On this day the emperor, an early riser as usual, came out of his bedroom and entered his cabinet, where were already assembled his general aide-de-camp, his other aides, the chamberlain, and gentlemen of the bed-chamber. Perceiving his general aide-de-camp, he called to him, and said:
"I am suffering. Send for Mandt."
"I will go myself, sire."
"Yes. I have a grand review at the end of the week, and must be there."
Mandt, his attendant physician, Prussian by birth, a man of science, and an excellent practitioner, hastened to the emperor, who, after having given his orders, had returned to his apartments.
"It will be nothing, gentlemen," said the doctor to us on leaving the imperial chamber; "only the emperor should abstain from going out, as the least imprudence may aggravate a malady which at present portends nothing serious."
The emperor remained two days in his room, and there was a sensible improvement in his condition. But his wasted figure, his dull eyes, and waxy color betrayed the existence of a hidden malady. The third day, the courier from the south brought him news—sad news, certainly, for it had been a long time since his couriers had anything happy to tell him. The next day was terribly cold, icy, heavy, impregnated with the boreal fog; yet this was the day of the review at which the czar wished to assist.
He threw a small military cloak over his uniform, and at the appointed hour left his cabinet, to mount his horse.
Mandt was waiting for him in the antechamber.