The funeral took place on the fourth day after her death.  In the morning of that day, from strong affection—­having known her from an infant—­I begged permission to see the corpse.  She was in her coffin; snowdrops and crocuses were laid upon her innocent bosom, and roses, of that sort which the season allowed, over her person.  These and other lovely symbols of youth, of springtime, and of resurrection, caught my eye for the first moment; but in the next it fell upon her face.  Mighty God! what a change! what a transfiguration!  Still, indeed, there was the same innocent sweetness; still there was something of the same loveliness; the expression still remained; but for the features—­all trace of flesh seemed to have vanished; mere outline of bony structure remained; mere pencilings and shadowings of what she once had been.  This is, indeed, I exclaimed, “dust to dust—­ashes to ashes!”

Maximilian, to the astonishment of everybody, attended the funeral.  It was celebrated in the cathedral.  All made way for him, and at times he seemed collected; at times he reeled like one who was drunk.  He heard as one who hears not; he saw as one in a dream.  The whole ceremony went on by torchlight, and toward the close he stood like a pillar, motionless, torpid, frozen.  But the great burst of the choir, and the mighty blare ascending from our vast organ at the closing of the grave, recalled him to himself, and he strode rapidly homeward.  Half an hour after I returned, I was summoned to his bedroom.  He was in bed, calm and collected.  What he said to me I remember as if it had been yesterday, and the very tone with which he said it, although more than twenty years have passed since then.  He began thus:  “I have not long to live”; and when he saw me start, suddenly awakened into a consciousness that perhaps he had taken poison, and meant to intimate as much, he continued:  “You fancy I have taken poison;—­no matter whether I have or not; if I have, the poison is such that no antidote will now avail; or, if they would, you well know that some griefs are of a kind which leave no opening to any hope.  What difference, therefore, can it make whether I leave this earth to-day, to-morrow, or the next day?  Be assured of this—­that whatever I have determined to do is past all power of being affected by a human opposition.  Occupy yourself not with any fruitless attempts, but calmly listen to me, else I know what to do.”  Seeing a suppressed fury in his eye, notwithstanding I saw also some change stealing over his features as if from some subtle poison beginning to work upon his frame, awestruck I consented to listen, and sat still.  “It is well that you do so, for my time is short.  Here is my will, legally drawn up, and you will see that I have committed an immense property to your discretion.  Here, again, is a paper still more important in my eyes; it is also testamentary, and binds you to duties which may not be so easy to execute as the disposal of my property.