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.’