At length, the arrow of the Inevitable Angel was poised, but the sinking Prince still formed projects for the future. He would see the Czar Alexander upon affairs of state; and many a gay day, he averred, should yet make glad the gardens of Belveil. His medical attendant, Malfati, came in for a share of observation; and the whole profession of which Malfati was a member was made subject for satire. “When he was with the great Catherine,” he remarked, “he could do more for himself than the doctors were then doing for him.” Malfati inquired, “In what way?” “Whenever I was well,” said the son of fashion, “I used to invite Ségur and Cobentzel to my quarters. I gave medicine to one, and bled the other; and thereupon I got well!” And as the sinking octogenarian laughed, Death steadied his javelin for the throw. Malfati delicately hinted that age opposed greater difficulties now than before; and in gentle spirit, he essayed to prepare the Prince for the coming and irresistible change. But no! the Prince had work yet to do, and must live to do it. “I have no intention yet,” he said, “nor shall have for a long time to come, to make use of the epitaph written for me by my old friend, the Marquis de Bonney:— “‘Ci gît le Prince de Ligne, Il est tout de son long couché. Jadis il a beaucoup _péché_,— Mais ce n’etait pas à la ligne!’” We may excuse Malfati for smiling at the refined wit of the once famous _jeu d’esprit_; but it did not restrain him from making the Prince aware of the danger of his position. The latter received the intelligence with disgust, ill-concealed under a few light words; and with the assurance that, like Adrian, he had verses to write to his soul, but that he had not time just then! It was true; for Death, at that moment, laid upon him that hand which mortal may not resist. The Prince not only felt, but he beheld, the terrible and unconquerable aggressor. The hour was dull midnight when the old warrior and “macaroni” frantically fought his last battle, and succumbed ingloriously. He sprang from a recumbent into a sitting position, shrieked aloud, ordered the door to be closed; and as Death pressed upon him, he struggled and wrestled with the calm, strong phantom, as though a substantial foe was before him, who might be strangled by bodily effort. But it was fruitless, for the decree had gone forth, and doom had come. In the midst of cries for help, and writhing efforts to get free, the stroke was given, and the Prince fell dead. The day was the 13th of December, 1814. What was mortal of him was magnificently entombed, and the terms of his epitaph were more poetical than veracious. But, beneath it all,—brass, marble, and mendacity,—the dandy of two centuries was left to sleep as undisturbedly as the curses of unpaid tailors would allow him to do.