At these words, all his children flung themselves on the bed, kissing his hands and bedewing them with tears. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, drawing his hands away. ‘I am not a saint yet, children; or are you mistaking me for a relic?’ The joke produced a more painful sensation than the most agonising cry could have done. The doctor prevailed upon him to take a draught, which gave him some hours of peaceful sleep. When he awoke he had recovered his cheerfulness; the idea of death had vanished. He began even to jest about the terrible prognostics which, in spite of his weakness, he had overheard in the morning. ‘Malfati, the “camarde’s” messenger has given you to understand that she might pay me a visit this evening,’[94] he said. ‘A truce to that kind of gallant diversion. I have never broken my appointments, but I mean to break this one. Yes, I have adjourned the writing of the verses which, like Hadrian, I intend to address to my soul about to leave my body.’ There was a lighted candle on a piece of furniture near the window. ‘Blow that candle out,’ he said to his servant: ‘people can see it from the rampart; they’ll mistake it for a wax taper, and they’ll think I am dead. ‘Did not I tell you,’ he said, addressing himself to us, ‘that the verdicts of the faculty are not invariably without appeal. Decidedly, the newsmongers and idlers of the Graben will have to postpone their comments on my demise, at any rate this time. I hear that to keep their tongues and pens going they are spreading the rumour of the Empress of Russia’s pregnancy.’ He went on in the same tone, interrupting himself to discuss the plans of his journeys for the coming spring, and the travels he wished to complete. We, alas, were far from sharing his opinion, the ravages of the disease were too plainly discernible; practically there was no hope. Malfati when leaving had pronounced the situation to be exceedingly grave. Towards the middle of the night the doctor’s apprehensions were fast being realised. The improvement of a few hours was all at once succeeded by a thorough prostration. Suddenly his strength seemed to revive; he sat up in bed and assumed a fighting attitude; his eyes were wide open, and shone with unusual brilliancy, he gesticulated violently and shouted: ‘Shut the door, put her outside, “la camarde,” the hideous hag.’ He was manifestly struggling with all his might against the ‘hideous hag’s’ grip, and gasping forth incoherent words, while we, standing by terror-stricken and paralysed with grief, could only answer him with sobs. This last effort exhausted him completely; he fell back unconscious. An hour later, God received his soul. It was the 13th December 1814.