In the early part of 1852 a trouble of the spine became apparent, causing poor D’Orsay much pain and sickness, which he bore with admirable and uncomplaining patience. In July the doctors ordered him to Dieppe, whither he went accompanied by the faithful Misses Power; but it was too late; death was evidently at hand. At the end of the month he returned to Paris, to die.

On 2nd August, the Archbishop of Paris visited him, and on parting, embraced him, saying: “J’ai pour vous plus que de l’amitiÉ, j’ai de l’affection.” The next day he received the last consolations of the Church at the hands of the curÉ of Chambourcy.

Madden had visited him during his last weeks, and has left a strange account of an interview with him, which must be quoted verbatim:—

“The wreck only of the beau D’Orsay was there.

“He was able to sit up and walk, though with difficulty and evidently with pain, about his room, which was at once his studio, reception room, and sleeping apartment. He burst out crying when I entered the room, and continued for a length of time so much affected that he could hardly speak to me. Gradually he became composed, and talked about Lady Blessington’s death, but all the time with tears pouring down his pale wan face, for even then his features were death-stricken.

“He said with marked emphasis: ‘In losing her I lost everything in this world—she was to me a mother! a dear, dear mother! a true loving mother to me!’ While he uttered these words he sobbed and cried like a child. And referring to them, he again said: ‘You understand me, Madden.’”

Madden believed D’Orsay to have been speaking in all sincerity. What are we to believe? There is something almost terrible in this scene of the dying dandy, broken down in body and spirits, making a gallant effort to clear the name he had for years besmirched. But the statements of the dying must not be allowed to weigh against the deeds of the living. And would the dead lady have been pleased?

Madden continues:—

“I said, among the many objects which caught my attention in the room, I was very glad to see a crucifix placed over the head of his bed; men living in the world as he had done, were so much in the habit of forgetting all early religious feelings. D’Orsay seemed hurt at the observation. I then plainly said to him:—

“‘The fact is, I imagined, or rather I supposed, you had followed Lady Blessington’s example, if not in giving up your own religion, in seeming to conform to another more in vogue in England.’

“D’Orsay rose up with considerable energy, and stood erect and firm with obvious exertion for a few seconds, looking like himself again, and pointing to the head of the bed, he said:

“‘Do you see those two swords?’ pointing to two small swords (which were hung over the crucifix crosswise); ‘do you see that sword to the right? With that sword I fought in defence of my religion.’”

He then briefly narrated the story of the duel which we have already told.

During his last illness, D’Orsay received from the Emperor the appointment of Director of Fine Arts. The honour came too late.

At three o’clock in the morning of the fourth of August 1852, aged fifty-one, died Alfred, Count d’Orsay, the last and the greatest of the dandies.

He was buried at Chambourcy; the same monument covers his ashes and those of Lady Blessington. In the absence of the Duke de Grammont, who was confined to bed by illness, D’Orsay’s nephews, Count Alfred de Grammont and the Duke de Lespare, were the chief mourners; the Duchesse de Grammont, his sister, was there, and among others Prince Napoleon, Count de Montaubon, M. Emile de Girardin, M. Charles Lafitte, M. Alexandre Dumas fils, Mr Hughes Ball, and several other Englishmen.

Gronow says: “His death produced, both in London and Paris, a deep and universal regret.”

But one who did not love him, Count Horace de Viel Castel, whom we have before quoted, did not join in the chorus of regrets:—

“Count d’Orsay is dead, and all the papers are mourning his loss. He leaves behind him they say, many chefs-d’oeuvres, and on his death-bed requested ClÉsinger to finish his bust of Prince JÉrÔme.

“D’Orsay had no talent; his statuettes are detestable and his busts very bad; but a certain set cried him up for their own purposes, and called him a great man. One newspaper goes so far as to affirm that on hearing of his death the President said: ‘I have lost my best friend,’ a statement which I know to be perfectly false.

“D’Orsay’s friends were the President’s enemies—the JÉrÔme Bonapartes, Emile de Girardin, Lamartine, etc. He never pardoned the Prince for not appointing him Ambassador to the Court of St James’, forgetting, or purposely ignoring, the fact that such a thing was impossible. No Government would have received him. His debts are fabulous.… The papers inform us that he has been buried at Chambourcy (on the property of his sister, the Duchesse de Grammont) in the same grave as his mother-in-law, Lady Blessington. The incident is sublime; to make it complete, perhaps they will engrave on his tombstone: ‘That his inconsolable and heart-broken widow, etc. etc.’

“He died ten years too late, for he became at last merely a ridiculous old doll. The President does not lose his best friend; on the contrary, he is well rid of, a compromising schemer.”

ClÉsinger one day asked D’Orsay why he did not come to see him oftener.

“Because people say that it is I who make your statues,” responded D’Orsay, with a smile.

“Really!” replied the sculptor, “I will come and see you; no one would accuse me of being guilty of yours.”

Dickens wrote in Household Words: “Count d’Orsay, whose name is publicly synonymous with elegant and graceful accomplishments; and who, by those who knew him well, is affectionately remembered and regretted, as a man whose great abilities might have raised him to any distinction, and whose gentle heart even a world of fashion left unspoiled.”

Landor writes:—

“The death of poor, dear D’Orsay fell heavily tho’ not unexpectedly upon me. Intelligence of his painful and hopeless malady reached me some weeks before the event. With many foibles and grave faults, he was generous and sincere. Neither spirits nor wit ever failed him, and he was ready at all times to lay down his life for a friend. I felt a consolation in the loss of Lady Blessington in the thought how unhappy she would have been had she survived him. The world will never more see united such graceful minds, so much genius and pleasantry, as I have met, year after year, under her roof.…”

Macready:—

“To my deep grief perceived the notice of the death of dear Count d’Orsay. No one who knew him and had affections could help loving him. When he liked he was most fascinating and captivating. It was impossible to be insensible to his graceful, frank, and most affectionate manner.… He was the most brilliant, graceful, endearing man I ever saw—humorous, witty, and clear-headed.”

D’Orsay’s good friend, Emile de Girardin, wrote in La Presse of August 5th, 1852:—

Le Comte d’Orsay est mort ce matin À trois heures.

“La douleur et le vide de cette mort seront vivement ressentis par tous les amis qu’il comptait en si grand nombre en France et en Angleterre, dans tous les rangs de la sociÉtÉ, et sous tous les drapeaux de la politique.

“A Londres, les salons de Gore House furent toujours ouverts À tous les proscrits politiques, qu’ils s’appelassent Louis Bonaparte ou Louis Blanc, À tous les naufragÉs de la fortune et À toutes les illustrations de l’art et de la science.

“A Paris, il n’avait qu’un vaste atelier, mais quiconque allait frapper au nom d’un malheur À secourir ou d’un progrÈs À encourager, Était toujours assurÉ du plus affable accueil et du plus cordial concours.

“Avant le 2 DÉcembre, nul ne fit d’efforts plus rÉitÉrÉs pour que la politique suivÎt un autre cours et s’ÉlevÂt aux plus hautes aspirations.

“AprÈs le 2 DÉcembre, nul ne s’employa plus activement pour amortir les coups de la proscription: Pierre Dupont[38] le sait et peut le certifier.

“Le PrÉsident de la RÉpublique n’avait pas d’ami À la fois plus dÉvouÉ et plus sincÈre que le Comte d’Orsay; et c’est quand il venait de la rapprocher de lui par le titre et les fonctions de surintendant des beaux-arts qu’il le perd pour toujours.

“C’est une perte irrÉparable pour l’art et pour les artistes, mais c’est une perte plus irrÉparable encore pour la VÉritÉ et pour le PrÉsident de la RÉpublique, car les palais n’ont que deux portes ouvertes À la VÉritÉ: la porte de l’amitiÉ et la porte de l’adversitÉ, de l’amitiÉ qui est À l’adversitÉ ce que l’Éclair est À la foudre.

“La justice indivisible, la justice Égale pour tous, la justice dont la mort tient les balances, compte les jours quand elle ne mesure pas les dons. Alfred d’Orsay avait ÉtÉ comblÉ de trop de dons—grand coeur, esprit, un goÛt pur, beautÉ antique, force athlÉtique, adresse incomparable À tous les exercises du corps, aptitude incontestÂble À tous les arts auxquels il s’Était adonnÉ; dessin, peinture, sculpture—Alfred d’Orsay avait ÉtÉ comblÉ de trop de dons pour que ses jours ne fussent pas parcimonieusement comptÉs. La mort a ÉtÉ inexorable, mais elle a ÉtÉ juste. Elle ne l’a pas traitÉ en homme vulgaire. Elle ne l’a pas pris, elle l’a choisi.”

There is one more general summary of his character which must be given. Grantley Berkeley tells a pleasant story of a dinner at the Old Ship Hotel at Greenwich:—

“I remember a dinner at the Ship, where there were a good many ladies, and where D’Orsay was of the party, during which his attention was directed to a centre pane of glass in the bay-window over the Thames, where some one had written, in large letters, with a diamond, D’Orsay’s name in improper conjunction with a celebrated German danseuse then fulfilling an engagement at the Opera. With characteristic readiness and sang-froid, he took an orange from a dish near him, and, making some trifling remark on the excellence of the fruit, tossed it up once or twice, catching it in his hand again. Presently, as if by accident, he gave it a wider cant, and sent it through the window, knocking the offensive words out of sight into the Thames.”

Then he continues:—

“D’Orsay was as clever and agreeable a companion as any in the world, and perhaps as inventive and extravagant in dress as Beau Brummel, though not so original nor so varied in the grades of costume through which his imagination carried him. There were all sorts of hats and garments named after him by their makers, more or less like those he wore, and a good many men copied him to some extent in his attire. He and I adopted the tight wristbands, turned back upon the sleeve of the coat upon the wrist, in which fashion we were not followed by others, I am happy to say.…

“Among the peculiarities and accomplishments for which D’Orsay desired to be famous was that of great muscular strength, as well as a knowledge of all weapons, and when he shook hands with his friends it was with the whole palm, with such an impressive clutch of the fingers as drove the blood from the limb he held, and sent every ring on the hand almost to the bone. The apparent frankness of manner and kind expression in his good-looking face, when he met you with the exclamation, ‘Ah, ha, mon ami!’ and grasped you by the hand, were charming, and we, who rather prided ourselves on being able to do strong things, used to be ready for this grasp, and exhibit our muscular powers in return. There is no man who can so well imitate D’Orsay’s method of greeting in this particular as my excellent friend, Dr Quin.

“Poor dear D’Orsay! He was a very accomplished, kind-hearted, and graceful fellow, and much in request in what may be called the fashionable world. I knew him well in his happier hours, I knew him when he was in difficulties, and I knew him in distress; and when in France I heard from Frenchmen that those in his native country to whom he looked for high lucrative employment and patronage, and from whom D’Orsay thought he had some claim to expect them, rather slighted his pretensions; and when in his last, lingering, painful illness,[39] left him to die too much neglected and alone.

“That D’Orsay was unwisely extravagant as well as not over-scrupulous in morality, we know; but that is a man’s own affair, not that of his friends. His faults, whatever they were, were covered, or at least glossed over by real kindness of heart, great generosity, and prompt good-nature, grace in manner, accomplishments, and high courage; therefore, place him side by side with many of the men with whom he lived in England, D’Orsay by comparison would have the advantage in many things.”