His breast did not move, and death stared from the
glazed, half-open eyes.
A doctor was soon on the spot, the curious were turned out of the
house, and they began the work of resuscitation. They had labored
uninterruptedly for nearly an hour when Paul burst in, crying in a
choking voice: "Doctor--doctor, is he alive?" The servants had told
him all in flying haste outside.
The doctor shook his head. "There is nothing more to be done."
But Paul would not believe it. He would not suffer them to cease
their efforts. The rubbing, the movements, the artificial
respiration had to be kept up for another full hour. But death held
his prey fast, and would not let them force it out of his clutches.
Two days later, on a gray rainy day, they buried him. Schrotter came
over from Berlin for the funeral. He looked quite broken down, and
grief had aged his leonine features to an appalling extent. Malvine
and Willy were lying ill in bed, so that Paul and Schrotter followed
their friend alone to his last resting-place. When the coffin was
carried out and lifted into the hearse, and Paul came out of his
house, he saw through the veil of tears that obscured his vision
that several hundred men were standing in orderly array on the
opposite side of the Carlstrasse.
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