Before the end of the year Andrea, tired of a wandering life, had again bought a house, this time in the Contrada Unicorno, and settled himself there for the winter, promising to pay the owner three hundred and forty ducats in three instalments. It was an unwise venture, as the issue too soon proved. A plague drove the wealthier Mantuans from the city, provisions became scarce, and his own health began to give way. Still he remained in Mantua and painted on manfully, endeavouring to finish a mythological picture of Comus, which Isabella had ordered. But it was in vain. He could not work fast enough to satisfy his creditors, and when pressed to pay the stipulated sum for his house he was compelled to apply to the Marchioness for help. Isabella was then at a villa near Cavriana, and Andrea wrote to her in pathetic terms, telling her of his distress, and offering to her for sale the one of all his antiques which he most valued, “_la mia cara Faustina_.” Often in brighter days great masters and connoisseurs had wished to buy this bust, but he had refused all their offers, and now since part from it he must, the Marchioness is the only person to whom he can bear to give it up. Strange as it seems, Isabella did not answer this letter, and with a meanness unworthy of her wrote to her servant, Jacopo Calandra, telling him to bargain with Andrea and obtain the Faustina at the lowest price possible. This unkindness cut Mantegna to the heart, and when Calandra communicated Isabella’s answer to him, he refused angrily to part with the bust for less than the hundred ducats which had been offered him in former days. Isabella, however, was determined to have it, and on the 1st of August Calandra was able to write:—“Your Excellency will be glad to hear that I have at last obtained possession of Andrea Mantegna’s Faustina. He gave the bust into my hands with great reluctance, recommending it to my care with much solicitude, and with such demonstrations of jealous affection that if he were not to see it again for six days I feel convinced he would die.” The words were to come true sooner than Isabella or Calandra had expected. Andrea could bear to part with houses and lands, but the marble was dear to him as his own flesh and blood, and the parting with it broke his heart. He was already ill at the time, and six weeks later he died, on Sunday, the 13th of September, 1506. To the last the old spirit of loyalty to the Gonzagas did not leave him, and his son Francesco, writing to inform the Marquis of the sad event, describes how a few minutes before his death he asked for his master, and grieved much to think that he should never see him again.