One day they came to tell me that on recovering from a sudden attack he
had uttered my name and asked to see me. I flew to his bedside, kissing
him and weeping over him. He looked at me with eyes full of sorrow,
pressed my hand, and struggled hard to make himself understood; but his
paralysed tongue refused to articulate anything but: “_Mio Dio!_—Barant,
Baranto——”
I was overcome with grief at his state; I was advised to go; they led me
away and put me into my carriage.
On the morrow my brother sent me word that the poor dying man being no
better than on the previous day, a visit from me could not fail to be
hurtful rather than helpful. On the following days he wrote to me in the
same fashion, and at last came himself to tell me, with every sign of
grief and affliction, that our father was no more.