On the 26th June, Elie was carried into Pasteur's flat; it was a very great satisfaction to him, it brought him nearer his laboratory. Now and then, very seldom now, he thought he might return there one day; he said I should wheel him there in his bath-chair. "I know I could scarcely work there myself. But perhaps I might still play the part of a ferment, be useful to my pupils by giving them advice. I am leaving so much unfinished work which it would be interesting to go on with: the question of intestinal flora, that of diabetes, which surely is an infectious disease--but that will have to be proved,--and my experiments on the subject were scarcely begun. I think the study of gonorrhoea will give very interesting results when they succeed in inoculating it in new-born animals. And the question of tuberculosis is well started! I could still help my pupils and encourage them if I were a little better!... But I have no illusions! I must live now only from day to day...." Those words were uttered with heart-rending resignation. He continued to get worse.... It was fortunate that pantopon should have given him good nights, for attacks of oppression now supervened several times during the day; tachycardia was continuous, the heart was weakening. The quantity of urine diminished; it often did not surpass 250 cubic centimetres, and no diuretic succeeded in increasing it; the legs remained swollen, ascitis was beginning to become visible; in the night he occasionally grew slightly delirious. At the beginning of July he wished to sit up; he spent part of the afternoon in an armchair, his legs lying on cushions. We thought it was a good sign, but in reality he found it difficult to breathe lying down. Several times he asked me to play to him, very soft music, as noisy sounds wearied him. I played him some Beethoven, some Mozart; the last time it was a Chopin prelude. On the 9th his temperature went down in an alarming way to 35.2° C. (95 F.). For the first time he would not write down his ordinary observations. "What is the good?" said he, "it has no longer any interest." Yet the next day he did so, for the last time. On the 11th and 12th he put down his temperature, and glanced superficially at the notes I had written. On the 12th, about five o'clock in the morning, he had a bad fit of breathlessness followed by coughing, and brought up large clots of very red blood. He smiled faintly. "You understand what that means," he said, adding some tender words. I wheeled him to his bed, which he never left again. On the 13th, in the early morning, he felt very ill. Calmly and gently he warned me to be ready. "It will surely be to-day or to-morrow." My heart breaking, I asked him why he said that; was he feeling very weak? or suffering very much? "No," he said, "it is difficult to say what I feel; I have never felt anything like it; it is, so to speak, a death-_sensation_.... But I feel very calm, with no fear. You will hold my hand, will you not?"