March 3rd, 1855.

The day before yesterday, I thought that the Grand Duchess, wife
of the heir to the throne, was very anxious. For a week the Emperor
has had influenza. At first there had been no serious symptoms at
all, but, although already feeling ill, he had insisted, in spite of
Doctor Mandt's advice, in going to the Riding School to say
farewell to a regiment leaving for the war. 'You have done your
duty, Doctor, in warning me, I am going to do mine. . . .'

He went to the Riding School and took to his bed on returning,
but his illness was kept secret. . . . The anxiety of the Grand Duchess
surprised me. She told me that even the evening before, Mandt had
said that the Sovereign's state was serious. ¹

It is only two days since all that and it seems to me now that the
world has collapsed. . . .

. . . I recall the memory of the night of the death. It was two or
three o'clock in the morning, but nobody slept. They had just
called for the Court Chaplain. In the corridors, on the stairs every-
where, I met (coming down from my rooms and shaking with
apprehension) frightened, anxious faces. This silent anxiety in the
semi-darkness of the Palace, feebly lit by a few wall-lamps, deep-
ened the impression of that terrible moment.

The dying Emperor was lying in his small study on the lower
storey. The great domed vestibule was filled with silent courtiers.
In this agonizing silence one heard only the howling of the wind in
the enormous square courtyard.

Until one o'clock of the night he did not know he was in danger
and thought his illness was only a passing indisposition. It was

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