us one more glimpse of
him.[*] The poet was told by his wife, who had visited Madame de
Balzac during the day, that Balzac's last hour had come; and directly
after dinner he took a cab and drove rapidly to the Rue Fortunee. "I
rang. It was moonlight, occasionally veiled by clouds. The street was
deserted. No one came. I rang a second time. The door was opened. A
servant appeared with a candle. 'What does Monsieur want?' she said.
She was crying.

[*] "Choses Vues, 1850: Mort de Balzac," by Victor Hugo.

"I gave my name. I was shown into the room on the ground floor. On a
pedestal opposite the fireplace was the colossal bust of Balzac by
David. In the middle of the salon, on a handsome oval table, which had
for legs six gilded statuettes of great beauty, a wax candle was
burning. Another woman came in crying, and said: 'He is dying. Madame
has gone to her own rooms. The doctors gave him up yesterday.' After
going into medical details, the woman continued: 'The night was bad.
This morning at nine o'clock Monsieur spoke no more. Madame sent for a
priest. The priest came, and administered extreme unction. Monsieur
made a sign to show that he understood. An hour afterwards he pressed
the hand of his sister, Madame Surville. Since eleven o'clock the
death rattle has been in his throat, and he can see nothing. He will
not last out the night. If you wish it, Monsieur, I will call M.
Surville, who has not yet gone to bed.'

"The woman left me. I waited several minutes. The candle hardly
lighted up the splendid furniture of the salon, and the magnificent
paintings by Porbus and Holbein which were hanging on the walls. The
marble bust showed faintly in the obscurity, like the spectre of a
dying man. A corpse-like odour filled the house.

"M. Surville came in, and confirmed all that the servant had told me.
I asked to see M. de Balzac.

"We crossed a corridor, went up a staircase covered with a red carpet
and crowded with artistic objects--vases, statues, pictures, and
stands with enamels on them. Then we came to another passage, and I
saw an open door. I heard the sound of difficult, rattling breathing.
I entered Balzac's room.

"The bedstead was in the centre of the room. It was of mahogany, and
across the foot and at the head were beams provided with straps for
moving the sick man. M. de Balzac was in this bed, his head resting on
a heap of pillows, to which the red damask sofa cushions had been
added. His face was purp