ng of somewhat doubtful
taste. The face was uncovered; the brow, the nose, the closed eyes, bore
that expression of nobleness which had marked him in life, and which was
enhanced by the grave majesty of death. The mouth and chin were hidden
by a cambric handkerchief. On his head was a white cotton nightcap
which, however, allowed the grey hair on his temples to be seen. A white
cravat rose to his ears. His tawny visage appeared more severe amid all
this whiteness. Beneath the sheet his narrow, hollow chest and his thin
legs could be discerned.

The shutters of the windows giving on to the garden were closed. A
little daylight entered through the half-opened door of the salon. The
chamber and the face were illumined by four tapers which burned at the
corners of a table placed near the bed. On this table were a silver
crucifix, a vase filled with holy water, and an aspergillum. Beside it a
priest was praying.

Behind the priest a large brown-coloured screen hid the fireplace, above
which the mantel-glass and a few engravings of churches and cathedrals
were visible.

At Chateaubriand's feet, in the angle formed by the bed and the wall of
the room, were two wooden boxes, placed one upon the other. The
largest I was told contained the complete manuscript of his Memoirs, in
forty-eight copybooks. Towards the last there had been such disorder in
the house that one of the copybooks had been found that very morning by
M. de Preuille in a dark and dirty closet where the lamps were cleaned.

A few tables, a wardrobe, and a few blue and green armchairs in disorder
encumbered more than they furnished the room.

The adjoining salon, the furniture of which was hidden under unbleached
covers, contained nothing more remarkable than a marble bust of Henry
V. and a full-length statuette of Chateaubriand, which were on the
mantelpiece, and on each side of a window plaster busts of Mme. de Berri
and her infant child.

Towards the close of his life Chateaubriand was almost in his second
childhood. His mind was only lucid for about two or three hours a day,
at least so M. Pilorge, his former secretary, told me.

When in February he was apprised of the proclamation of the Republic he
merely remarked: "Will you be any the happier for it?"

When his wife died he attended the funeral service and returned laughing
heartily--which, said Pilorge, was a proof that he was of weak mind. "A
proof that he was in his right mind!" affirmed Edo