"To die, is it not the best thing I can do? Farewell, my old friend, I have need of rest. Let no one disturb me."
All night the imperial family, who had been apprised of his condition, the doctors, Mandt and Rasel, united in the anteroom, waited with anxiety—not daring to knock at the door of the emperor—for the moment he might call to them. Obedience, in this court, was so blindly servile that it imposed silence on the most natural and imperious sentiments. Toward two o'clock something was heard between a groan and a sigh. Mandt thought he might knock gently at the door of the imperial chamber.
"I have forbidden any one to disturb me," murmured the emperor, in a voice still feeble, but which retained an accent of authority.
That night was spent in mortal inquietude, in inexpressible anguish, and not until the next morning was the doctor informed by the valet de chambre that his august patient would like to see him.
"Well, Mandt, you were right. I believe I am a dead man."
These were the first words of Nicholas.
"O sire! I spoke as I did to dissuade your majesty from so great an imprudence."
"Let us see: look me in the face and tell me if there is yet hope."
"I believe so, sire."
"I tell you I am a dead man. I feel it. Go on, make use of your trade. Sound my lungs; I know that science will confirm my conviction."