STILL, in this deplorable condition, he continued to compose verses, he
sang, and he conversed; and all this he did to encourage me, by
disguising from me a part of what he suffered. He lost his powers of
digestion, he could not sleep, was reduced to a skeleton, and very
frequently swooned away. Yet the moment he was restored he rallied his
spirits, and, smiling, bade me be not afraid. It is indescribable what
he suffered during many months. At length a consultation was to be held;
the head physician was called in, approved of all his colleague had done,
and, without expressing a decisive opinion, took his leave. A few
minutes after, the superintendent entered, and addressing Maroncelli,
“The head physician did not venture to express his real opinion in your
presence; he feared you would not have fortitude to bear so terrible an
announcement. I have assured him, however, that you are possessed of
courage.”
“I hope,” replied Maroncelli, “that I have given some proof of it in
bearing this dreadful torture without howling out. Is there anything he
would propose?”
“Yes, sir, the amputation of the limb: only perceiving how much your
constitution is broken down, he hesitates to advise you. Weak as you
are, could you support the operation? will you run the risk—”
“Of dying? and shall I not equally die if I go on, without ending this
diabolical torture?”
“We will send off an account, then, direct to Vienna, soliciting
permission, and the moment it comes you shall have your leg cut off.”
“What! does it require a _permit_ for this?”
“Assuredly, sir,” was the reply.
In about a week a courier arrived from Vienna with the expected news.
My sick friend was carried from his dungeon into a larger room, for
permission to have his leg cut off had just arrived. He begged me to
follow him: “I may die under the knife, and I should wish, in that case,
to expire in your arms.” I promised, and was permitted to accompany him.
The sacrament was first administered to the unhappy prisoner, and we then
quietly awaited the arrival of the surgeons. Maroncelli filled up the
interval by singing a hymn. At length they came; one was an able
surgeon, to superintend the operation, from Vienna; but it was the
privilege of our ordinary prison apothecary, and he would not yield to
the man of science, who must be contented to look on. The patient was
placed on the side of a couch; with his leg down, while I supported him
in my arms. It was to be cut above the knee; first, an incision was
made, the depth of an inch—then through the muscles—and the blood flowed
in torrents: the arteries were next taken up with ligatures, one by one.
Next came the saw. This lasted some time, but Maroncelli never uttered a
cry. When he saw them carrying his leg away, he cast on it one
melancholy look, then turning towards the surgeon, he said, “You have
freed me from an enemy, and I have no money to give you.” He saw a rose,
in a glass, placed in a window: “May I beg of you to bring me hither that
flower?” I brought it to him; and he then offered it to the surgeon with
an indescribable air of good-nature: “See, I have nothing else to give
you in token of my gratitude.” He took it as it was meant, and even
wiped away a tear.