The dying king's fears for his nephew's future were almost prophetic. He had rallied all his remaining strength to utter these last words. His breathing soon became husky and his pulse intermittent, and a crisis was reached during which the king sank into an alarmingly quiet state. At two in the morning, the pulse hardly beat and his voice had completely failed him, although he signified, with his eyes, that he understood, and could still hear, the exhortations of his confessor. Finally, at four o'clock in the morning, when the last sign of life ceased and the body became still for ever, M. Alibert drew one of the king's hands outside the bed-covering and said, "The king is dead." At the words, the Comte d'Artois, who had not left his brother's side for two days, knelt down by the side of the bed and kissed his hand. Madame la Duchesse d'Angoulême and Mademoiselle followed his example; then both flung themselves in the arms of the Comte d'Artois and remained there for some time, weeping bitterly. As the new king left the death-chamber to return to his apartments, a herald-at-arms exclaimed three times-- "The king is dead, gentlemen! Long live the king!" And from that moment Charles X. was King of France. On 23 September we watched out of our windows the funeral procession of the last king that was to be taken to Saint-Denis. Chateaubriand wrote a poem, _le Roi est mort! vive le roi!_ about the death of the king, and it was one of the poorest productions that ever came from his pen. The same occasion inspired Victor Hugo to publish his _les Funérailles de Louis XVIII.,_ and it was one of his finest odes. I need not ask the forbearance of my readers if I quote a few stanzas:-- "Un autre avait dit: 'De ma race Ce grand tombeau sera le port; Je veux, aux rois que je remplace, Succéder jusque dans la mort. Ma dépouille ici doit descendre! C'est pour faire place à ma cendre Qu'on dépeupla ces noirs caveaux; Il faut un nouveau maître au monde; A ce sépulcre que je fonde Il faut des ossements nouveaux! 'Je promets ma poussière à ces voûtes funestes. A cet insigne honneur ce temple a seul des droits; Car je veux que le ver qui rongera mes restes Ait déjà dévoré des rois. Et, lorsque mes neveux, dans leur fortune altière, Domineront l'Europe entière, Du Kremlin à l'Escurial, Ils viendront tour à tour dormir dans ces lieux sombres, Afin que je sommeille, escorté de leurs ombres, Dans mon linceul impérial!' Celui qui disait ces paroles Croyait, soldat audacieux, Voir, en magnifiques symboles, Sa destinée écrite aux cieux. Dans ses étreintes foudroyantes, Son aigle, aux serres flamboyantes, Eût étouffé l'aigle romain; La victoire était sa compagne, Et le globe de Charlemagne Était trop léger pour sa main!