A second operation was performed, with no better result than before. The hope of being enabled to serve Chateaubriand more effectually alone induced her to submit to it. His end was fast approaching, and society itself seemed about to be dissolved. Without were contests; within were fears. The revolution of February, 1848, undid the revolution of July, 1830. The streets of the capital flowed with blood, and the roar of cannon in the insurrection of June shook the chamber of the expiring poet, and brought tears to his eyes. He heard with keen interest of the death of Monseigneur Affre, the good shepherd who gave his life for his sheep. The intrepid courage of that glorious martyr lent fresh nerve to his jaded spirit; and though his brilliant intellect had for some time past lost its lustre, his thoughts were perfectly collected to the last. He was heard to mutter to himself the words he had written in 1814: "No; I will never believe that I write on the tomb of France." The chill waters of the river of death could not extinguish the patriotism that burned in his breast. The Abbé Guerry, his confessor and friend, stood near him with the consolations of religion; his nephew, Louis de Chateaubriand, and the superioress of the convent of Marie-Therése, which he and his wife had founded. After receiving the blessed sacrament, he never spoke again; but his eyes followed Madame Récamier with an expression of anguish whenever she left the room. This was her crowning sorrow, that she could not see the sufferer she sought to relieve. When the worst was over, the calm of despair spread over her face, and a deathly paleness, which nothing could remove. She gratefully assented to everything which was proposed for her comfort; but her sad smile proved how vain was the effort to restore her to gladness. Those affectionate beings alone who live on friendship can comprehend the extent of her desolation.