Please note that this story takes place somewhere in the 19th century, when pneumonia was still a very dangerous disease. The characters live in an old French city.
Francis = France; Matthew = Canada; Gilbert = Prussia.

The Last Leaf

It was quite small to serve as lodgings for two people, in a secluded and dirty part of the old French roads. The apartment itself was shaky, the landlady a pain in the neck and winters were underwent without proper heating. Still, here Francis Bonnefoy lived with his partner Matthew Williams.

Francis was a jack of all trades, but a master of none. He did whatever work was tossed his way, ranging from washing laundry to writing articles for magazines or the local papers. Many a time he had to work non-stop for twenty-four hours just so bread would be put upon the table. Matthew on the other hand, was an avid painter. He loved creating life on a piece of canvas, loved that he could paint whatever his imagination allowed him to. However, he did not earn much with the few paintings he sold, nor had he any loyal patrons. So it was up to Francis to bring in the brunt of the income without a steady job.

During that winter, the country was gripped with various cases of pneumonia, causing hundreds of people to drop dead like flies once being confirmed to contract said disease. Medicine did little to help alleviate the pain flaring in the patient's lungs, it had almost no effect on stopping it from spreading. The government was in a frenzy, pushing doctors to find a cure whilst the poor practitioners of medicine themselves already had their hands full of patients screaming in agony or had sometimes contracted the diseases as well.

Fate was never on their side. This time it dealt Matthew a cruel hand, effectively cursing him with pneumonia, causing him constant bouts of pain in the lungs, a fever that never went down and difficulty in breathing. Francis wished desperately to drop everything and stay by his friend's side, but he had to bring in enough money to call a doctor. Mr Etienne stated that the young male had a chance of living albeit slim. A chance of one in ten. Francis almost fainted on the spot. A chance in ten?! His poor Matthew was as good as dead!

"Has he got anything to focus on? Something like a goal which he wants to attain." asked the white-whiskered doctor.

Francis thought for a while. "Well, Mr Etienne, he had always wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day..."

"Paint? Bosh! Hasn't he got anything better to focus on? A jolie femme or a job he's wanted?"

"As much as I appreciate the matters of amour, I don't think it'll work docteur." He heaved a sigh and brought a hand to rub the base of his neck in exasperation. "But non, there is nothing of the sort."

The doctor stroked his beard. "Then it is the weakness. I will do all that science so far can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in his funeral procession, I subtract 50 percent from the curative power of medicines." He made for the front door and the other Frenchman accompanied him but stopped short. "If you get your cher ami to talk about happier things than this disease, then his chances will be one in five, not ten."

Keeping the doctor's words in mind, Francis bade him farewell and promised to keep him updated on Matthew's condition. It would seem that Mr Pneumonia was not a chivalric gentleman, for his icy fingers stalked about the colony, slipping his terrible sickness into honest lives.

He prepared a gruel of porridge with chopped parsnips and a glass of warm honeyed milk for Matthew's lunch. He sipped some wine to steel his nerves before knocking twice on the bedroom door. Matthew, once lively and endearingly sweet, was lying on the steel bed motionless, scarcely making a ripple under his bedclothes with his face toward a window. Francis entered quietly after, thinking that Matthew was fast asleep. He placed the meal on a nightstand and arranged a board on his lap in the chair he occupied next to the bed. He began to pen an ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. It was one of the jobs he had taken up since Matthew was suspected of the disease.

As he was sketching the delicate details of a monocle on a man's coat breast, he heard a low rumble, repeated several times. Matthew's eyes popped open, looking out the window and counting. Backward.

"Matthieu, mon cher pray tell what are you doing at this moment?" Francis set down his tools gently next to him.

Matthew continued to ignore him in the dimness of his bedroom. "Thirteen," he said and a little later "twelve"; and then "eleven" and "ten" almost together.

"What is it, amoureux?" asked the Frenchman in a worried tone.

"Six." Matthew concluded almost in a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's so easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."

"Five what, mon cher? Tell me please."

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you, François?" he asked with innocence.

"Oh Matthieu, I've never heard of such nonsense!" said he with a magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, my cheeky gosse . Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances of getting better were much higher!" Francis deftly pulled Matthew into a sitting position and handed him the meal tray. "Here, try to take some broth now while I finish up the drawing so I can sell it to the editor and buy some medicine for my sick friend and some wine for my greedy self."

"You really needn't any more wine, you know." said Matthew, keeping his eyes fixed on the window. "There goes another. No I don't want any porridge. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark."

Francis ran a hand through his usually well-kept hair. "Matthieu mon cher, promise me to keep your eyes closed and not count the leaves. It's much too depressing a thought."

"Why should I?" challenged Matthew.

"Because, my dearest Matthieu, je te aime." With that he left the room and his lodgings, heading down one level to knock at Mr Beilschmidt's door.

Mr Gilbert Beilschmidt was once an eager youth who came to the city of love to paint. Alas, lady luck abandoned him, leaving him in shambles without able to produce a single decent painting. Now he modelled for other painters at a cheap price.

Gilbert's den was ripe with the smell of juniper berries and stale food. An easel had been set up devoid of a canvas or any paints in a corner while the owner himself was obsessively cleaning off a stain on the wooden planks of the floor. Francis invited himself in, gave customary greetings and recounted the tale of Matthew and the ivy vines. Gilbert shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Mein gott!" he cried. "Is dere people in dere world wit such foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. Nein, I will not bose as a model for you fool hermit-dunder-head. Vy do you allow dot silly boy to think such things? Ach, dot poor lettle Mattew."

"He is very ill and weak, mon ami." said Francis in retort. "The fever has left his mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Gilbert, if you do not care to pose for an old friend, you wouldn't need to. But I think you're a horrid old ermite."

"You are just like a French woman!" yelled Gilbert. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf been trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! Dis is not any blace in which one so gooot as lettle Mattew shall lie sick. Someday I vill paint a brilliant masterpiece, and ve shal all go away. Gott, yes!"

Matthew was already fast asleep when they went upstairs, and for a moment they both looked fearfully at the ivy vine. Francis made Gilbert pose as he wanted in the drawing room for an hour, after which he paid the man and handed in his newest sketch to the nearest post office.

When Francis awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning, Matthew stared at him with dull eyes.

"Pull it up; I want to see." he ordered in a mere whisper.

Francis wearily obeyed.

Lo and behold! Even after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured throughout the livelong night, there yet stood a lone leaf against the drab grey wall. It hung bravely form the branch twenty feet off the ground.

"It's the last one." said Matthew with hints of sadness lacing his voice. "I thought it would surely fall in the night. I heard the wind. It shall fall today. I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" cried Francis, leaning his worn face down onto the pillow. "Think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Matthew did not answer. The most lonesome thing in the world is when a soul when it is preparing to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to posses him more, as ties which bound one to the earth were.

The day wore away slowly, but the ivy leaf never fell. During the next dawn, Matthew the merciless commanded that the shades be pulled again, only to find that the ivy leaf was still there. He called for Francis who was busy making chicken broth in the kitchen.

"I've been a bad child, mon cher François. Something has made the last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die." A slight pause. "May I please have some broth now? And a glass of honeyed milk. Oh, and could you please arrange the pillows around me so that I could sit up an watch you cook?"

An hour later, he said: "I would very much like to paint Bay of Naples some day."

The doctor came in the afternoon and declared that Matthew was getting better. 'Even chances' were his words which left Francis in a much better mood than he had been in a few days. The next day the doctor said "With good nursing and nutrition you'll win." He smiled to Francis. "Now I must go attend to another fellow downstairs. He's caught the death man's sickness as well."

Francis was contentedly sketching another piece for the magazine the next day, seated at the side of Matthew's bed. Outside, the lone ivy leaf hung with much persistence. Matthew lay in bed with a book on his lap, finally returning to his old self.

"Matthieu, I have something to tell you, mon cher." He took on a rather sombre tone and a sad smile graced his features. "Mr Beilschmidt died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him moaning helplessly on the floor of his room in pain. His shoes and clothing were wet with icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night." At this moment he took a brief pause to gather his emotions. "And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its plate, and some scattered brushes, a pallete of green and yellow colours mixed on it. Look out the window dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you ever wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew?"

Slowly, Matthew's face morphed into one of realisation.

"Ah darling, it's Gilbert's masterpiece. He painted it right there the night the last leaf fell."

Some translations:
jolie femme - pretty woman
doctuer – doctor
cher ami - dear friend
mon cher - my dear
amoureux – sweetheart
gosse – brat
je te aime - I love you
mon ami - my friend
ermite – hermit
mein gott – my god
gott – god

Hope you have enjoyed the story dear readers. It is inspired from another story by the same title.
Thank you for reading, and I do hope you may find it in you to favourite this story if you have liked it. Reviews are welcome.
Au reviour!