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 last tender proof of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay.  He died as he had lived—­in loving.

When the doors of the parlor were opened, his friends threw themselves around the loved corpse, not able to suppress the gush of tears.

His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and brilliant hues.  He seemed to repose in a garden of roses.  His face regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity.  Calmly—­with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering, restored by death, he slept among the flowers he loved, the last long and dreamless sleep!

M. Clesinger reproduced the delicate traits, to which death had rendered their early beauty, in a sketch which he immediately modeled, and which he afterwards executed in marble for his tomb.