There was a keen, bitter expression on his large, thin face, and whoever saw him for the first time might easily have supposed him to be a wicked, spiteful man.  He knew this, and delighted in frightening the men and maid-servants at the taverns by hideous grimaces—­he boasted of being able to make ninety-five different faces—­until the artist’s old valet at last dreaded him like the “Evil One.”

He was particularly gay in Avignon, for he felt better than he had done for a long time, and ordered a seat to be engaged for him in a vehicle going to Marseilles.

The evening before their separation, he described with sparkling vivacity, the charms of the Ligurian coast, and spoke of the future as if he were sure of entire recovery and a long life.

In the night Ulrich heard him groaning louder than usual, and starting up, raised him, as he was in the habit of doing when the poor little man was tortured by difficulty of breathing.  But this time Pellicanus did not swear and scold, but remained perfectly still, and when his heavy head fell like a pumpkin on the boy’s breast, he was greatly terrified and ran to call the artist.

Moor was soon standing at the head of the sick-bed, holding a light, so that its rays could fall upon the face of the gasping man.  The latter opened his eyes and made three grimaces in quick succession—­very comical ones, yet tinged with sadness.

Pellicanus probably noticed the artist’s troubled glance, for he tried to nod to him, but his head was too heavy and his strength too slight, so he only succeeded in moving it first to the right and then to the left, but his eyes expressed everything he desired to say.  In this way several minutes elapsed, then Pellicanus smiled, and with a sorrowful gaze, though a mischievous expression hovered around his mouth, scanned: 

“‘Mox erit’ quiet and mute, ‘gui modo’ jester ’erat’.”  Then he said as softly as if every tone came, not from his chest, but merely from his lips—­

“Is it agreed, Navarrete, Ulrich Navarrete?  I’ve made the Latin easy for you, eh?  Your hand, boy.  Yours, too, dear, dear master . . .  Moor, Ethiopian—­Blackskin. . . .”

The words died away in a low, rattling sound, and the dying man’s eyes became glazed, but it was several hours before he drew his last breath.

A priest gave him Extreme Unction, but consciousness did not return.

After the holy man had left him, his lips moved incessantly, but no one could understand what he said.  Towards morning, the sun of Provence was shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when he suddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singing to Hans Eitelfritz’s melody, let fall from his lips the words:  “In fortune, good fortune.”  A few minutes after he was dead.

Moor closed his eyes.  Ulrich knelt weeping beside the bed, and kissed his poor friend’s cold hand.

When he rose, the artist was gazing with silent reverence at the jester’s features; Ulrich followed his eyes, and imagined he was standing in the presence of a miracle, for the harsh, bitter, troubled face had obtained a new expression, and was now the countenance of a peaceful, kindly man, who had fallen asleep with pleasant memories in his heart.