During that period, he had the pleasure of seeing some of his pupils again, and of receiving several Russian deputies and journalists. They talked to him of political events, of the war, of the moral state of Russia. All that interested him immensely; he plied them with the most varied questions. It must be remembered that, before that interview, we had lost all touch with Russia. During the whole of May he again had ups and downs, but the progress of the disease was indisputable. Tachycardia was constant, urine more and more scanty, the swelling of the legs never decreased, cough and oppression occurred frequently even during the day. Elie awaited his seventy-first birthday with impatience. Often during the night, after a painful attack, he would count the days, hours, and minutes which separated him from that date. At last it arrived. Here are the lines which he added to his notes on that day: 16th May. Against all expectation, I have lived until this day. I have reached my 71 years. My dream of a rapid death without a long illness has not been realised. I have now been bedridden for five months. After several crises of tachycardia, following upon a slight grippe with asthma, I had congestion of one lung with pleuritic exudate. Though some improvement followed after that, nevertheless I am tormented by fits of sweating followed by cough and oppression. I suffer chiefly in the night from those attacks; they provoke insomnia which can only be combated by pantopon. My psychical state is twofold. In one way, I should like to get well, but, on the other hand, I see no sense in living any longer. Illness has not provoked in me any fear of death, and I am more deprived than formerly of the joy of living. The reawakening of spring leaves me quite indifferent. There can be no question for me of that pleasure which convalescents often feel, nor indeed of any pleasure. To the despair that I feel in the face of medicine's powerlessness to cure the ills of my friends is added the feeling of its powerlessness towards my own illness. I think that my desire to recover and to continue to live is connected with practical causes. The war has compromised our finances, our income from Russia has practically disappeared. If I die, my wife may find herself in a very difficult situation. Given her lack of practical notions, that may lead to very sad results. Yet it is quite impossible to straighten our affairs before the end of the war and the re-establishment of normal conditions. These were the last words he wrote in his book of notes; his hand had become weak and trembling; he tired very soon, and henceforth I wrote under his dictation. On the 18th June, one month before his cremation, he dictated to me for the last time, and this is what he said: