1822.} 
lapses, which weakened him exceed- 
ingly. He displayed the same courage, 
under the accumulated mass. of his 
sufferings as he was wont to do before 
the presence of his enemies. Every 
where intrepid, disputing the ground 
of life foot by foot, and only oe fae at 
the instant that cruel death over- 
whelmed him with all its forces. 
From the day en which Bonaparte 
felt the first symptoms of his malady 
he foresaw the consequences of it.‘ I 
believe you to be an able physician,” 
said he to Dr. Antomarchi; “ but when 
He who measures out the thread of 
life has pronounced his decree, all 
-human skill will only be attended 
with vain efforts.” 
In the mean time the invalid daily 
wasted away. From the beginning of 
February he became more gloomy and 
melancholy; the books which were 
generally read to him had no longer 
any charm; solitude alone had the 
secret of pleasing him. He suddenly 
lost all appetite, and soon after was 
fureced to keep his bed ; then was it 
that his most faithful attendants con- 
ceived the liveliest alarms. However, 
favourable intelligence arrived from 
Europe, which appeared to them cal- 
culated to restore hope to his soul. He 
was informed that powerful steps were 
making round the Allied Sovereigns’ 
in order to obtain from them a change 
in the place of his exile: it was added. 
that his family were almost certain of 
soou seeing him -on the continent. 
“They take too much trouble,” 
cried he; “1 thank the persons very 
sincerely who occupy themselves in 
endeavouring to ameliorate my condi- 
tion: but vain promises will probably 
be substituted for humiliations. These 
are steps which will be attended with 
pure loss. Were my oppressors sus- 
ceptible of wishing to reconcile them- 
selves with Heaven and with mankind, 
whom they outrage in me, may I not 
profit by their repentance; it is no 
longer time to revoke a decree of death, 
when the murdered victim does no 
more than palpitate.”’ 
On the 3d of May, he called Counts 
Bertrand and Montholon to his bed- 
side. “Come, my friends,” said he, 
extending forth his hand, “ courage, I 
am not deficient in it; but we must 
separate. You know all the objects 
whom I have not ceased to cherish ; 
let them not be left ignorant of the 
sentiments of friendship with which 
Last Six Months of Napoleon. 
47 
they have always inspired me. Should 
you approach my son—iny friends—I 
prescribe nothing to you. You will 
see my ancient comrades of glory and 
of dangers : tell them that I loved them 
always, that the remembrance of them 
has followed me to the tomb. Should my 
mortal remains be proscribed, as my 
person has been, carry them near to 
that fountain, the waters of which have 
so often quenched my thirst. But 
should my enemies be less exasperated 
against my remains, than when they 
were animated by the breath of life, 
and should leave them at your disposi- 
tion, transport them to the banks of 
the Seine, in the midst of that people 
whom my soul so much loved.’’* 
- Tt was time that the feebleness of the 
illustrious patient should put an end 
to this scene of death. Counts Ber- 
trand and Montholon, whose souls were 
broken down with sufferings, had no 
longer any tears to bid a last adieu to 
the man whom they had so constantly 
loved—so faithfully served: grief— 
true gtief weeps not, it choaks the 
utterance. 
In the evening of the same day, the 
young Marchand, valet-de-chambre of 
Napoleon, received the most unequi- 
vocal proofs of the gratitude of his 
master. But among the benefits with 
which he was overwhelmed, that which 
was most flattering to this zealous ser- 
vant, were the words addressed to him 
by the dying Emperor: “ I shall give 
you much less, my friend, but you will 
not the less, on that account, cherish 
my memory. I know your heart, it is 
made for constancy and friendship.” 
On the 5th of May, Napoleon, in an 
almost agonising state, was again vi- 
sited by Doctors Arnot, of the 20th 
regt. Short, army physician, and 
Mitchell, first medical officer of the 
navy. But death had already marked 
him for his prey ; all assistance was in 
vain. The patient expired the same 
day, at ten minutes before six o’clock. 
His life was no longer held but by an 
almost broken thread, while his soul 
was yet occupied with that adored 
country of which he was the sovereign : 
France !—France !—were the last words 
he uttered. piles: 
Thus finished, in the force of age, 
* The circumstances to which this para- 
graph relates, have been communicated 
to us by one of the eye-witnesses of this 
affecting scene. 
on 
