Early this morning, the atrium of Emperor's physicians, who throughout the day had issued bulletines, made the announcement that the monarch had at last succumbed. Outside the Sohocn, the palace had been thronged, waiting since early in the afternoon, when the Emperor's condition had been officially declared to be "worse."
Like wildfire, the new spread through the capital, and the tolling of all the city church bells. Joining in a solemn chorus, awakened Vienna's people to the fact that the long-awaited end had come at last. The Emperor was eighty-six years old.
Then occurred a curious psychological phenomenon. No sooner had the first shock of the excitement passed, well-expressed by the newspapers through extra editions issued almost every few minutes, than the people of Vienna appeared more calm, more sober, and more settled than probably at any time since the beginning of the war. A deep sadness lay upon all male faces amid the throngs that besieged the palace. Women sobbed, but there was no hysterical outcry, no panicky pushing to and fro, no fainting.
As the whole empire was in a state of turmoil, it was as if all Vienna, and with the capital, the whole empire, breathed a deep sigh of relief.
So long had this event been looked for, so often had it been predicted, reported, denied, and so intense was the atmosphere during the war.  The last forty hours that human nature had become all predominant: It had come to crave the very opposite of what it feared. 