But a greater enemy to work than poverty appeared--cholera, the scourge of 1832. One of the competitors for the _Prix de Rome_ died on his way to the school, and Hippolyte was attacked. He struggled against it, and, weak though he was, he went on working; but at length he had to give way, and for a whole month he was in bed. A few days before the time for sending in the pictures, he returned to work, and managed to finish his subject, which was at once pronounced as having the _Grand Prix_. At Rome, Flandrin was in his element; he studied the great masters, and drank in all their wisdom, working almost entirely upon religious subjects. Even Ary Scheffer, then at the height of his fame, felt the extreme beauty of his young rival's art. "No, I know nothing, nothing at all," he said to Hippolyte, on seeing the latter's picture of _Jesus with the Little Children_. Flandrin's first commission for Church decoration was in his native city, S. Severinus of Lyon; his second, S. Germain; but his greatest work was the mural painting of S. Vincent de Paul, which he accomplished some years later. On the 21st of March, 1864, Flandrin died at Rome of small-pox, whither he had gone for his health. He was buried at Père-la-Chaise; but the funeral service was held in the church he did so much to embellish; and, two years after, his friends placed a monument by M. Oudine to his memory, upon the wall of the north aisle. It is composed of white marble, four columns supporting a pediment, and resting upon a freize. Below the bust is an epitaph which is little in keeping with the man or the place: À HIPPOLYTE FLANDRIN. SES AMIS, SES ELÈVES, SES ADMIRATEURS, LYON, 22 MARS, 1809,--ROME, 21 MARS, 1864. Not one word of what he loved above all things, his home, his country, his art, and his God; and yet his friends, his pupils, and in fact everyone acquainted with him, must have known that such a man would have liked a few words upon his tomb which would have borne witness to the depth of his religious feelings. Here is an extract from a letter to his eldest brother which breathes through it his piety and his love of home: "You cannot imagine how I long to see you and embrace you, as well as the mother and father. Almost every night I fancy myself at Lyon, and yesterday I was really angry with Paul (his brother, helper, and fellow-student), because he awoke me just at the moment when I thought I was kissing you. I was crying for joy.... Remember that we agreed to pray for each other every evening. I never fail to do so, and I feel sure our poor mother never forgets: she loves us so much, and she is so far off. _Pauvre père, la bonne mère, vous n'êtes plus entournés par tous vos enfants._"