Moliere had just composed _Le Malade Imaginaire,_ the last of that succession of blows which he had so often dealt the doctors; he was more ailing than ever; his friends, even his actors themselves pressed him not to have any play.

"What would you have me do ?" he replied; "there are fifty poor workmen who have but their day's pay to live upon; what will they do if we have no play?
I should reproach myself with having neglected to give them bread for one single day, if I could really help it." Moliere had a bad voice, a disagreeable hiccough, and harsh inflexions.

"He was, nevertheless," say his contemporaries, "a comedian from head to foot; he seemed to have several voices, everything about him spoke, and, by a caper, by a smile, by a wink of the eye and a shake of the head, he conveyed more than, the greatest speaker could have done by talking in an hour." He played as usual on the 17th of February, 1673; the curtain had risen exactly at four o'clock; Moliere could hardly stand, and he had a fit during the burlesque ceremony (at the end of the play) whilst pronouncing the word Juro.

He was icy-cold when he went back to Baron's box, who was waiting for him, who saw him home to Rue Richelieu, and who at the same time sent for his wife and two sisters of charity.

When he went up again, with Madame Moliere, into the room, the great comedian was dead.