threw themselves upon their knees--no one ventured to speak; the
sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the Countess, floating,
like a melody from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its
heavy and mournful earth-accompaniment. It was the haunted hour
of twilight; a dying light lent its mysterious shadows to this
sad scene--the sister of Chopin prostrated near his bed, wept and
prayed--and never quitted this attitude of supplication while the life
of the brother she had so cherished lasted.

His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he felt more
tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known in advance the
appointed and propitious moment, he asked to receive immediately the
last sacraments. In the absence of the Abbe ----, with whom he had been
very intimate since their common expatriation, he requested that
the Abbe Jelowicki, one of the most distinguished men of the Polish
emigration, should be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered
to him, he received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great
devotion. He called his friends a short time afterwards, one by one,
to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest blessing; calling
down the grace of God fervently upon themselves, their affections, and
their hopes,--every knee bent--every head bowed--all eyes were heavy
with tears--every heart was sad and oppressed--every soul elevated.

Attacks more and more painful, returned and continued during the day;
from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a single word. He
did not seem able to distinguish the persons who were around him. About
eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening, he appeared to revive a little. The
Abbe Jelowicki had never left him. Hardly had he recovered the power
of speech, than he requested him to recite with him the prayers and
litanies for the dying. He was able to accompany the Abbe in an audible
and intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held his
head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman, who, during
the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his days and nights to
him.

A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final
agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his
brow; after a short drowsiness, he asked, in a voice scarcely audible:
"Who is near me?" Being answered, he bent his head to kiss the hand of
M. Gutman, who still supported it--while giving this