At a quarter before four the bell rang violently. Both rushed to Mirabeau’s rooms. The doors were fastened. They went round to the room of the unknown woman, and thus reached his bed-chamber. Mirabeau, on the floor, half-fainting, held this woman in his arms, doubtless to keep her from calling for aid. She had rung the bell on the table, being unable to get hold of the bellrope. When she saw the servants, she begged them to assist her as well as Mirabeau. In his convulsions Mirabeau was strangling her. Thanks to the efforts of the two servants, the dying man’s grasp was torn apart. Mirabeau fell on a chair, and, all in tears, she entered her room.

  Jean then went for Doctor Gilbert, while Teisch attended to his master.

  Gilbert did not wait to send for a carriage. It was not far from his house to the Chaussee d’Antin, and in ten minutes he was at Mirabeau’s house.

  Teisch was in the vestibule. “Ah, sir!” said he, “that woman! That cursed woman! You will see, you will see!”

  Gilbert was at the foot of the stairway, when something like a sob was heard, and a door opposite Mirabeau’s opened. A woman, in a white veil, appeared and fell at the doctor’s feet. “Gilbert! Gilbert!” said she, folding her arms. “for mercy’s sake save him.”

  “Nicole!” said Gilbert, “is it you?”

  Gilbert paused a moment. A terrible idea flitted across him. “Ah!” murmured he, “Beausire sells pamphlets against him, and Nicole is his mistress. All is lost, for Cagliostro’s finger is visible.”

  He hurried into Mirabeau’s room, being aware there was not a moment to be lost. It is not our intention to follow all the various phases of this terrible disease. In the morning a report of it got into the city, and — this time more seriously than before — he had a relapse, it was said, and this relapse threatened death.

  It was then that one could judge of the great space occupied by one man in the midst of a nation. All Paris was moved as if a general calamity threatened the community. All the day, as before, the street was guarded by the people, in order that the noise of carriages might not disturb him. From hour to hour the groups assembled under the windows asked the news. Bulletins were issued, which passed at once from the Chausee d’Antin to the extremities of Paris. The door was besieged by citizens in every station, of every opinion, as if every party, however opposed to each other, had something to lose in losing Mirabeau. During all this time the relations and particular friends of the great orator filled the hall and chambers without his knowing anything about the matter.

  On the evening of this first day of the relapse, a deputation, with Barnave at the head, came from the Society of the Jacobins, to inquire as to the health of their ex-president.

  Doctor Gilbert never quitted Mirabeau for twenty-four hours. On Wednesday evening, he was sufficiently well for Gilbert to consent to seek a few hours’ repose in a neighbouring chamber.

  Before going to bed, the doctor ordered that at the least change he should be called at once. At break of day he awoke; no one had disturbed his sleep, and yet he rose half afraid; for he thought it impossible some change had not taken place.

  On going downstairs, Teisch announced to the doctor, with his eyes full of tears, that Mirabeau was worse, but had forbidden any one disturbing Doctor Gilbert.

  The patient had suffered severely; the pulse had become bad again, the pains had developed themselves with greater ferocity — in fine, the spasms had returned.

  “My dear doctor,” he said to Gilbert, “I shall die to-day. When one is as I am, one has nothing to do but to perfume and crown one’s self with flowers, so as to enter on the last sleep as agreeably as possible. — May I do as I like?”

  Gilbert made a sign implying that he was his own master.

  He then called his two domestics. “Jean,” said he, “get me the most beautiful flowers you can find, while Teisch dresses me as well as he can.”

  Teisch seemed to ask permission with his eyes of Gilbert, who nodded his head in assent. He went out. As for Teisch, who had been very ill from watching, he began to shave and dress his master.

  When Jean, on whom, as he left the hotel, everybody rushed to learn the news, had said that he was going to fetch flowers, men rushed down the streets calling for flowers for M. de Mirabeau; and every door opened, each offering what he had, whether in the house or conservatory. By nine o’clock in the morning, M. de Mirabeau’s chamber was transformed into a beautiful bed of flowers, and Teisch had finished his toilet.

  “My dear doctor,” said Mirabeau, “I ask you for a quarter of an hour to bid good-bye to some one who ought to leave the hotel before I do. If any one should wish to insult this person, I recommend her to your care.”

  Gilbert understood. “Good!” said he, “I will leave you.”

  “Yes, but you will wait in the adjoining chamber, and this person once gone, you will not leave me until death?” Gilbert signed his assent.

  “Give me your word,” said Mirabeau. Gilbert gave it, sobbing. This stoic was quite astonished to find himself in tears; he had believed himself, through force of philosophy, to be insensible. He then went toward the door. Mirabeau stopped him.

  “Before going out,” said he, “open my secretary and give me the little casket you will find there.”

  Gilbert did as Mirabeau wished. This casket was heavy. Gilbert thought it contained gold. Mirabeau made him a sign to put it on the toilet-table. He then gave him hold of his hand.

  “Will you have the goodness to send Jean to me?” he asked. “Jean, not Teisch. It fatigues me to call or ring.”

  Gilbert went out. Jean was waiting in the next chamber, and entered as Gilbert left. Gilbert heard the door bolted behind him. The half hour that followed was employed by Gilbert in giving information to those who were in the house. A carriage stopped before the gate of the hotel. For a moment his idea was that a carriage of the court had been allowed to pass. He ran to the window. It would have been a sweet consolation to the dying man to know that the queen had thought of him. It was a hackney coach, which Jean had been to fetch. The doctor guessed for whom. In fact, some minutes afterwards, Jean came out, conducting a lady, veiled in a large mantle. The lady got into the carriage. The crowd, without troubling themselves as to who the lady was, respectfully retired. Jean went into the hotel.

  A moment after, the door of the chamber opened, and the feeble voice of the invalid was heard inquiring for the doctor. Gilbert ran to him.

  “Look!” said Mirabeau. “Put this casket in its place, my dear doctor.” Then, as he seemed astonished to find it as heavy as at first, “Yes,” said Mirabeau: “it is curious, is it not? Where the devil will disinterestedness come from at last?”

  In approaching the bed, Gilbert found a handkerchief on the ground, embroidered and trimmed with lace. It was wet with tears. “Ah!” said he to Mirabeau, “if she has not taken anything, she has left something.”

  Mirabeau took the handkerchief, and feeling it was wet, applied it to his forehead.

  “Oh!” murmured he, “she is the only one who has a heart!” He fell hack on the bed; his eyes closed as if he were already dead; but the rattle in his chest showed that he was still on his way to the grave.

  From this time the few hours that Mirabeau had still to live were painful and agonizing. Gilbert kept his word, and remained near his bed till the last minute.

  He took a glass, poured in a few drops of that green liquid of which he had already given a phial to Mirabeau, arid without mixing it this time with any brandy, he put it to the lips of the invalid.

  “Oh, dear doctor,” said the latter, smiling, “if you wish the elixir to have any effect upon me, give me a glassful, or the whole phial.”

  “Why so?” asked Gilbert, looking fixedly at Mirabeau.

  “Do you believe that I, who have abused every treasure through life, would have this in my hands and not abuse it too? No! I caused your liquor, my dear sir, to be analysed, and I learned that it was drawn from the root of the Indian hemp; and I have taken it not by drops, but by glassfuls — not to live alone, but to dream.”

  “Unhappy one!” murmured Gilbert, “without doubt I have poisoned you!”

  “Sweet poison, dear doctor, by whose aid I have doubled, quadrupled the last hours of my existence — by which, in dying at forty-two, I have lived the life of a century. Oh, doctor, doctor! do not repent, but rather be glad! God gave me but a life, sad, discoloured, unhappy, deserving of little regret, and which man ought always to be ready to give up. Doctor, do you know I doubt whether I ought to thank God for my life, but I am sure I ought you for presenting me with your poison? Fill the glass, doctor, and give it me!”

  The doctor did as Mirabeau wished, and presenting him the liquid, he drank it with pleasure.

  “Thanks!” murmured he. And he sank again on his pillow.

  This time Gilbert no longer doubted his death. The abundant dose of hashish which Mirabeau had taken, like the effects of the voltaic pile, had given the invalid, with speech, the play of his muscles; but now that he had ceased to speak, the muscles grew stiff, and death already began to show itself in his face.

  During three hours his cold hand remained between Gilbert’s. During these three hours, that is, from four to seven o’clock, the agony was calm; so calm that one could easily have thought he slept.

  But towards eight o’clock, Gilbert felt his cold hand start in his. The starting was violent. He could no longer deceive himself. “Allons,” said he, “now the struggle, the true agony begins.”

  And indeed the face of the invalid was covered with sweat. He made a motion as if he would drink. They hastened to offer him brandy, orangeade, water; but he shook his head. He wished for none of these. He made a sign, and they brought him pen, ink and paper.

  He took the pen, and in a scarcely legible hand wrote — ”Fly! fly! fly!”

  He would have signed it; but he could only write the first two or three letters of his name, and stretching his arms towards Gilbert, “ For her,” he murmured. And he fell back on his pillow without a motion, without a look, without a groan. He was dead!

  Gilbert came to his bedside, looked at him, felt his pulse, put his hand on his heart, then, turning to the spectators of this last scene, “Gentlemen,” said he, “Mirabeau no longer breathes.”

  And putting his lips for the last time on the forehead of the dead, he took the paper, whose destination he only knew, folded it carefully, put it in his breast, and went — not thinking it right to detain a single instant longer than necessary to go from Chaussee d’Antin to the Tuileries, the recommendation of the illustrious departed.

  Some seconds after the doctor left the chamber of death, a great clamour was raised in the street. This was the report of the death of Mirabeau, which was beginning to spread.

  Soon a sculptor entered; he was sent by Gilbert, to preserve for posterity the features of this great orator. Some minutes of eternity had already given serenity to those features. Mirabeau was not dead. Mirabeau seemed to sleep — a sleep full of life and pleasant dreams.

  The grief was immense — universal. In one moment it spread from the Chaussee d’Antin to the barriers of Paris. It was eight o’clock in the morning. The people raised one terrible cry. They ran to the theatres, they tore down the affiches, they shut the doors.

  A ball had taken place the same evening in an hotel of the Rue Chaussee d’Antin. They went to the hotel, dispersed the dancers, and broke the instruments.

  The loss which had just happened was announced to the National Assembly by the president.

  Barrere immediately ascended the tribune, and demanded the Assembly should record, in the minutes of the day, its regret for the loss of this great man, and insisted, in the name of the country, that all the members of the Assembly should assist at his funeral.

  The next day, the 3rd of April, the Department of Paris presented itself to the National Assembly, and demanded and obtained that the church of Sainte Genevieve should be erected into a pantheon, and consecrated as a sepulchre for great men, and that the first one buried there should be Mirabeau.

  Let us give here the magnificent decree of the Assembly:

  “ARTICLE I. The new edifice of Genevieve shall be destined to receive the ashes of great men, and date from the epoch of French liberty.

  “ARTICLE II. The legislature shall decide to whom this honour shall be decreed.

  “ARTICLE III. The honoured Riquetti Mirabeau is judged worthy of this honour.

  “ARTICLE IV. The legislature cannot confer this honour on one of its members; it can only be bestowed by the following one.

  “ARTICLE V. The exceptions for those great men, who died before the revolution, can only be determined by the legislature.

  “ARTICLE VI. The directory of the city of Paris shall be charged to put the edifice of Sainte Genevieve into a proper state for this object, and cause to be engraved on the front these words: ‘Our country dedicates this to her great men.’

  “ARTICLE VII. Meanwhile, the body of Riquetti Mirabeau shall be deposited by the side of the ashes of Descartes, in the vaults of the church of Sainte Genevieve.”

  The next day, at four in the evening, the National Assembly left the salle of the Manege and went to the hotel of Mirabeau. It was attended by the directors of the departments, by all the ministers, and two hundred thousand people.

  But of these two hundred thousand people, no one had come on behalf of the queen.

  The cortege commenced to move.

  Lafayette marched at its head, as Commander-General of the National Guard. Then the President of the National Assembly — Tronchet. Then the ministers. Then the Assembly, without any party distinctions, Sicyes giving his arm to Charles de Lameth. After the Assembly, the Jacobin club, like a second assembly, which had decreed eight days of mourning, and Robespierre, too poor to buy a dress, had hired one, as he had already done for the death of Franklin. And last came the entire population of Paris.

  A funeral march in which, for the first time, until then unknown instruments were heard — the trombone and the tomtom marked the time for this numerous cortege.

  When they reached Saint Eustache it was eight o’clock. The funeral oration was pronounced by Cerutti; at the last word ten thousand National Guards discharged their muskets.

  They continued their route with flambeaux. Darkness had fallen, and not only on to the streets, but on to the hearts that passed through them.

  The death of Mirabeau, in effect, was a political obscurity. Mirabeau dead — who knew whither things would tend? All felt that he had carried with him something that was wanting in the Assembly. The spirit of peace watched even in the midst of war, the goodness of the heart lay concealed under the violence of the mind. All the world had lost by this death: the royalists no longer had a rallying point, the revolutionists no curb. Besides, the carriage would roll more rapidly, and the descent be longer. Who could say towards what it rolled — whether to triumph or an abyss?

  Three years afterwards, on a dark day in autumn, not in the salle of the Manege, but in the salle of the Tuileries — when the Convention, after having killed the king, killed the queen; after having killed the Girondists, after having killed the Jacobins, the Montagnards, after having killed itself, had nothing left to kill — it killed the dead. This was when, with a savage joy, it declared that in the judgment it had rendered upon Mirabeau it had been mistaken, and that in its eyes corruption could not be pardoned to genius.

  A new decree was made, which excluded Mirabeau from the Pantheon.

  An usher came, and from the steps of the temple read the decree which declared Mirabeau unworthy to share the sepulchre of Voltaire, Rousseau, and Descartes, and summoned the guardian of the church to deliver up the body.

  Then a voice, more terrible than that which will be heard in the valley of Jehosbaphat, cried:

  “Pantheon! deliver up the dead!”

  The Pantheon obeyed. The body of Mirabeau was handed over to the usher, who caused it, as he said, to be taken and deposited in the usual place of burial.

  The usual place of burial was Clamart, the cemetery of the executed.

  And, without doubt to render the punishment which pursued him even after death more terrible, he was buried without cross, stone, or inscription.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  The Messenger.

  ON THIS SAME morning of the second of April, an hour perhaps before Mirabeau breathed his last, a superior naval officer, clothed in the full uniform of a captain, and coming from the Rue Saint Honore, hastened towards the Tuileries.

  Arrived there, he ascended, like a man who was familiar with the way, a little staircase which communicated by a long winding corridor with the apartments of the king.

  On perceiving him, the valet de chambre uttered a cry of surprise, almost of joy, but he, putting a finger on his mouth, asked:

  “Can the king receive me at once?”

  “The king is with General Lafayette, to whom he is giving the orders of the day,” answered the valet, “but as soon as the general has gone —

  “You will announce me,” said the officer.

  “Oh! that is useless. His majesty expects you; since yesterday evening orders were that you should be introduced as soon as you arrived.”

  At this moment a bell rung in the cabinet of the king. “There!” said the valet de chambre, “the king is probably ringing to inquire about you.”

  “Go, then, M. Huet, and do not lose any time if the king is at liberty to see me.”

  The valet de chambre opened the door, and almost immediately — proof that the king was alone — announced, “M. le Comte de Charny.”

  “Oh, let him come in! let him come in! I have waited for him since yesterday.”

  Charny advanced quickly, and approaching the king, “Sire,” said he, “I am, as it seems, late by some hours, but I hope that when I have informed your majesty of the causes of this delay you will pardon me.”

  “Come, come, M. de Charny. I was expecting you with impatience, it is true, but I acknowledged at once that it could only be something of importance that could make your journey less rapid than it has been — so now you are welcome.” And he gave the count his hand, which the latter kissed respectfully.