thought that she doubted what he said. He took his pistols out of his pockets, showed them to her, and went on:
“You see these toys? Well, when I leave you, I shall go somewhere —no matter where—put the muzzle to my temple, thus, press the trigger—and all will be over!”
She gazed at him, her eyes dilated with terror, pale, breathing hard and fast. But at the same time, she admired him. She marvelled at so much courage, at this calm, this careless railing tone. What superb disdain of life! To exhaust his fortune and then kill himself, without a cry, a tear, or a regret, seemed to her an act of heroism unheard of, unexampled. It seemed to her that a new, unknown, beautiful, radiant man stood before her. She loved him as she had never loved before!
“No!” she cried, “no! It shall not be!”
And rising suddenly, she rushed to him and seized him by the arm.
“You will not kill yourself, will you? Promise me, swear it to me. It isn’t possible, you would not! I love you—I couldn’t bear you before. Oh, I did not know you, but now—come, we will be happy. You, who have lived with millions don’t know how much ten thousand francs are—but I know. We can live a long time on that, and very well, too. Then, if we are obliged to sell the useless things—the horses, carriages, my diamonds, my green cashmere, we can have three or four times that sum. Thirty thousand francs—it’s a fortune! Think how many happy days—”
The Count de Tremorel shook his head, smilingly. He was ravished; his vanity was flattered by the heat of the passion which beamed from the poor girl’s eyes. How he was beloved! How he would be regretted! What a hero the world was about to lose!
“For we will not stay here,” Jenny went on, “we will go and conceal ourselves far from Paris, in a little cottage. Why, on the other side of Belleville you can get a place surrounded by gardens for a thousand francs a year. How well off we should be there! You would never leave me, for I should be jealous—oh, so jealous! We wouldn’t have any servants, and you should see that I know how to keep house.”
Hector said nothing.
“While the money lasts,” continued Jenny, “we’ll laugh away the days. When it’s all gone, if you are still decided, you will kill yourself—that is, we will kill ourselves together. But not with a pistol—No! We’ll light a pan of charcoal, sleep in one another’s arms, and that will be the end. They say one doesn’t suffer that way at all.”
This idea drew Hector from his torpor, and awoke in him a recollection which ruffled all his vanity.
Three or four days before, he had read in a paper the account of the suicide of a cook, who, in a fit of love and despair, had bravely suffocated himself in his garret. Before dying he had written a most touching letter to his faithless love. The idea of killing himself like a cook made him shudder. He saw the possibility of the horrible comparison. How ridiculous! And the Count de Tremorel had a wholesome fear of ridicule. To suffocate himself, at Belleville, with a grisette, how dreadful! He almost rudely pushed Jenny’s arms away, and repulsed her.
“Enough of that sort of thing,” said he, in his careless tone. “What you say, child, is all very pretty, but utterly absurd. A man of my name dies, and doesn’t choke.” And taking the bank-notes from his pocket, where Jenny had slipped them, he threw them on the table.
“Now, good-by.”
He would have gone, but Jenny, red and with glistening eyes, barred the door with her body.
“You shall not go!” she cried, “I won’t have you; you are mine—for I love you; if you take one step, I will scream.”
The count shrugged his shoulders.
“But we must end all this!”
“You sha’n’t go!”
“Well, then, I’ll blow my brains out here.” And taking out one of his pistols, he held it to his forehead, adding, “If you call out and don’t let me pass, I shall fire.” He meant the threat for earnest.
But Jenny did not call out; she could not; she uttered a deep groan and fainted.
“At last!” muttered Hector, replacing the pistol in his pocket.
He went out, not taking time to lift her from the floor where she had fallen, and shut the door. Then he called the servants into the vestibule, gave them ten napolйons to divide among them, and hastened away.
Chapter XIII
The Count de Tremorel, having reached the street, ascended the boulevard. All of a sudden he bethought him of his friends. The story of the execution must have already spread.
“No; not that way,” he muttered.
This was because, on the boulevard, he would certainly meet some of his very dear cronies, and he desired to escape their condolence and offers of service. He pictured to himself their sorry visages, concealing a hidden and delicious satisfaction. He had wounded so many vanities that he must look for terrible revenges. The friends of an insolently prosperous man are rejoiced in his downfall.
Hector crossed the street, went along the Rue Duphot, and reached the quays. Where was he going? He did not know, and did not even ask himself. He walked at random, enjoying the physical content which follows a good meal, happy to find himself still in the land of the living, in the soft April sunlight.
The weather was superb, and all Paris was out of doors. There was a holiday air about the town. The flower-women at the corners of the bridges had their baskets full of odorous violets. The count bought a bouquet near the Pont Neuf and stuck it in his button-hole, and without waiting for his change, passed on. He reached the large square at the end of the Bourdon boulevard, which is always full of jugglers and curiosity shows; here the noise, the music, drew him from his torpor, and brought his thoughts back to his present situation.
“I must leave Paris,” thought he.
He crossed toward the Orleans station at a quicker pace. He entered the waiting-room, and asked what time the train left for Etampes. Why did he choose Etampes? A train had just gone, and there would not be another one for two hours. He was much annoyed at this, and as he could not wait there two hours, he wended his way, to kill time, toward the Jardin des Plantes. He had not been there for ten or twelve years—not since, when at school, his teachers had brought him there to look at the animals. Nothing had changed. There were the groves and parterres, the lawns and lanes, the beasts and birds, as before. The principal avenue was nearly deserted. He took a seat opposite the mineralogical museum. He reflected on his position. He glanced back through the departed years, and did not find one day among those many days which had left him one of those gracious memories which delight and console. Millions had slipped through his prodigal hands, and he could not recall a single useful expenditure, a really generous one, amounting to twenty francs. He, who had had so many friends, searched his memory in vain for the name of a single friend whom he regretted to part from. The past seemed to him like a faithful mirror; he was surprised, startled at the folly of the pleasures, the inane delights, which had been the end and aim of his existence. For what had he lived? For others.
“Ah, what a fool I was!” he muttered, “what a fool!”
