"Like Ugo Foscolo, I must write my _ultime lettere._ If every man who had thought and felt deeply could die before the decline of his faculties from age, and leave behind him his _philosophical testament_, that is to say, a profession of faith bold and sincere, written upon the planks of his coffin, there would be more truths recognised and saved from the regions of foolishness and the contemptible opinion of the vulgar. "I have other motives for executing this project. There are in the world various interesting men who have been my friends; I wish them to know how I ended my life. I desire that even the indifferent, namely, the bulk of the general public (to whom I shall be a subject of conversation for about ten minutes--perhaps even that is an exaggerated supposition), should know, however poor an opinion I have of the majority of people, that I did not yield to cowardice, but that the cup of my weariness was already filled, when fresh wrongs came and overthrew it. I wish, in conclusion, that my friends, those indifferent to me, and even my enemies, should know that I have but exercised quietly and with dignity the privilege that every man acquires from nature--the right to dispose of himself as he likes. This is the last thing that has interest for me this side the grave. All my hopes lie beyond it ...if perchance there be anything beyond." Thus, poor Rabbe, after all thy philosophy, sifted as fine as ripe grain; after all thy philosophising; after many prayers to God and dialogues with thy soul, and many conversations with death, these supreme interlocutors have taught thee nothing and thy last thought is a doubt! Rabbe had said he would not see the year 1830: and he died during the night of the 31 December 1829. Now, how did he die? That gloomy mystery was kept locked in the hearts of the last friends who were present with him. But one of his friends told me that, the evening before his death, his sufferings were so unendurable, that the doctor ordered an opium plaster to be put on the sick man's chest. Next day, they hunted in vain for the opium plaster but could not find it.... On 17 September 1835, Victor Hugo addresses these lines to him À ALPHONSE RABBE _Mort le_ 31 _décembre_ 1829 "Hélas! que fais tu donc, ô Rabbe, ô mon ami, Sévère historien dans la tombe endormi? Je l'ai pensé souvent dans les heures funèbres, Seul, près de mon flambeau qui rayait les ténèbres, O noble ami! pareil aux hommes d'autrefois, Il manque parmi nous ta voix; ta forte voix, Pleine de l'équité qui gonflait ta poitrine.