And George Sand?  Chopin, as I have already mentioned, said two days before his death to Franchomme:  “She had said to me that I would die in no arms but hers” [Elle n’avait dit que je ne mourrais que dans ses bras].  Well, did she not come and fulfil her promise, or, at least, take leave of her friend of many years?  Here, again, all is contradiction.  M. Gavard writes:—­

Among the persons who called and were not admitted was a certain Madame M., who came in the name of George Sand—­who was then much occupied with the impending representation of one of her dramas—­to inquire after Chopin’s state of health.  None of us thought it proper to disturb the last moments of the master by the announcement of this somewhat late remembrance.

Gutmann, on the other hand, related that George Sand came to the landing of the staircase and asked him if she might see Chopin; but that he advised her strongly against it, as it was likely to excite the patient too much.  Gutmann, however, seems to have been by no means sure about this part of his recollections, for on two occasions he told me that it was Madame Clesinger (George Sand’s daughter, Solange) who asked if it was advisable for her mother to come.  Madame Clesinger, I may say in passing, was one of those in loving attendance on Chopin, and, as Franchomme told me, present, like himself, when the pianist-composer breathed his last.  From the above we gather, at least, that it is very uncertain whether Chopin’s desire to see George Sand was frustrated by her heartlessness or the well-meaning interference of his friends.

During this illness of Chopin a great many of his friends and acquaintances, in fact, too many, pressed forward, ready to be of use, anxious to learn what was passing.  Happily for the dying man’s comfort, most of them were not allowed to enter the room in which he lay.

In the back room [writes M. Gavard] lay the poor sufferer, tormented by fits of breathlessness, and only sitting in bed resting in the arms of a friend could he procure air for his oppressed lungs.  It was Gutmann, the strongest among us, who knew best how to manage the patient, and who mostly thus supported him.  At the head of his bed sat the Princess Marcelline Czartoryska:  she never left him, guessing his most secret wishes, nursing him like a sister of mercy with a serene countenance, which did not betray her deep sorrow.  Other friends gave a helping hand or relieved her, everyone according to his power; but most of them stayed in the two adjoining rooms.  Everyone had assumed a part; everyone helped as much as he could:  one ran to the doctors, to the apothecary; another introduced the persons asked for; a third shut the door on the intruders.  To be sure, many who had anything but free entrance came, and called to take leave of him just as if he were about to start on a journey.  This anteroom of the dying man, where every one of us hopelessly waited and watched,