So when the rumor flew over Paris, Murger is sick!--Murger is
dying!--Murger is dead! it raised the greatest surprise. Everybody
wondered how the stalwart man they saw yesterday could be brought low so
soon. Where was his youth, that it came not to the rescue? The reader
can answer the question. Of a truth, the last act of the drama we have
sketched in these pages moved rapidly to the catastrophe. He awoke in
the middle of one night with a violent pain in the thigh, which ached as
if a red-hot ball had passed through it. The pain momentarily increased
in violence, and became intolerable. The nearest physician was summoned.
After diagnosis, he declared the case too grave for action until after
consultation. Another medical attendant was called in. After
consultation they decided that the most eminent surgeons of Paris must
be consulted. It was a decomposition of the whole body, attended with
symptoms rarely observed. The princes of medical science in Paris met at
the bedside. They all confessed that their art was impotent to
alleviate, much less to cure this dreadful disease. Murger's hours were
numbered. The doctors insisted upon his being transported to the
hospital.
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