exhausted into an uneasy slumber, in his arm-chair. He was awakened by three or four heavy raps on the door, which he hastily opened. It was the waiter, who had come to take his order for breakfast, and who started back with amazement on seeing Hector, so disordered was his clothing and so livid the pallor of his features.
“I want nothing,” said the count. “I’m going down.”
He had just enough money left to pay his bill, and six sous for the waiter. He quitted the hotel where he had suffered so much, without end or aim in view. He was more resolved than ever to die, only he yearned for several days of respite to nerve himself for the deed. But how could he live during these days? He had not so much as a centime left. An idea struck him—the pawnbrokers!
He knew that at the Monte-de-Piete1 a certain amount would be advanced to him on his jewelry. But where find a branch office? He dared not ask, but hunted for one at hazard. He now held his head up, walked with a firmer step; he was seeking something, and had a purpose to accomplish. He at last saw the sign of the Monte-de-Piete on a house in the Rue Conde, and entered. The hall was small, damp, filthy, and full of people. But if the place was gloomy, the borrowers seemed to take their misfortunes good-humoredly. They were mostly students and women, talking gayly as they waited for their turns. The Count de Tremorel advanced with his watch, chain, and a brilliant diamond that he had taken from his finger. He was seized with the timidity of misery, and did not know how to open his business. A young woman pitied his embarrassment.
“See,” said she, “put your articles on this counter, before that window with green curtains.”
A moment after he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the next room:
“Twelve hundred francs for the watch and ring.”
This large amount produced such a sensation as to arrest all the conversation. All eyes were turned toward the millionnaire who was going to pocket such a fortune. The millionnaire made no response.
The same woman who had spoken before nudged his arm.
“That’s for you,” said she. “Answer whether you will take it or not.”
“I’ll take it,” cried Hector.
He was filled with a joy which made him forget the night’s torture. Twelve hundred francs! How many days it would last! Had he not heard there were clerks who hardly got that in a year?
Hector waited a long time, when one of the clerks, who was writing at a desk, called out:
“Whose are the twelve hundred francs?”
The count stepped forward.
“Mine,” said he.
“Your name?”
Hector hesitated. He would never give his name aloud in such a place as this. He gave the first name that occurred to him.
“Durand.”
“Where are your papers?”
“What papers?”
“A passport, a receipt for lodgings, a license to hunt—”
“I haven’t any.”
“Go for them, or bring two well-known witnesses.”
“But—”
“There is no ‘but.’ The next—”
Hector was provoked by the clerk’s abrupt manner.
“Well, then,” said he, “give me back the jewelry.”
The clerk looked at him jeeringly.
“Can’t be done. No goods that are registered, can be returned without proof of rightful possession.” So saying, he went on with his work. “One French shawl, thirty-five francs, whose is it?”
Hector meanwhile went out of the establishment. He had never suffered so much, had never imagined that one could suffer so much. After this ray of hope, so abruptly put out, the clouds lowered over him thicker and more hopelessly. He was worse off than the shipwrecked sailor; the pawnbroker had taken his last resources. All the romance with which he had invested the idea of his suicide now vanished, leaving bare the stern and ignoble reality. He must kill himself, not like the gay gamester who voluntarily leaves upon the roulette table the remains of his fortune, but like the Greek, who surprised and hunted, knows that every door will be shut upon him. His death would not be voluntary; he could neither hesitate nor choose the fatal hour; he must kill himself because he had not the means of living one day longer.
And life never before seemed to him so sweet a thing as now. He never felt so keenly the exuberance of his youth and strength. He suddenly discovered all about him a crowd of pleasures each more enviable than the others, which he had never tasted. He who flattered himself that he had squeezed life to press out its pleasures, had not really lived. He had had all that is to be bought or sold, nothing of what is given or achieved. He already not only regretted giving the ten thousand francs to Jenny, but the two hundred francs to the servants—nay the six sous given to the waiter at the restaurant, even the money he had spent on the bunch of violets. The bouquet still hung in his buttonhole, faded and shrivelled. What good did it do him? While the sous which he had paid for it—! He did not think of his wasted millions, but could not drive away the thought of that wasted franc!
True, he might, if he chose, find plenty of money still, and easily. He had only to return quietly to his house, to discharge the bailiffs, and to resume the possession of his remaining effects. But he would thus confront the world, and confess his terrors to have overcome him at the last moment; he would have to suffer glances more cruel than the pistol-ball. The world must not be deceived; when a man announces that he is going to kill himself—he must kill himself.
So Hector was going to die because he had said he would, because the newspapers had announced the fact. He confessed this to himself as he went along, and bitterly reproached himself.
He remembered a pretty spot in Viroflay forest, where he had once fought a duel; he would commit the deed there. He hastened toward it. The weather was fine and he met many groups of young people going into the country for a good time. Workmen were drinking and clinking their glasses under the trees along the river-bank. All seemed happy and contented, and their gayety seemed to insult Hector’s wretchedness. He left the main road at the Sиvres bridge, and descending the embankment reached the borders of the Seine. Kneeling down, he took up some water in the palm of his hand, and drank—an invincible lassitude crept over him. He sat, or rather fell, upon the sward. The fever of despair came, and death now seemed to him a refuge, which he could almost welcome with joy. Some feet above him the windows of a Sиvres restaurant opened toward the river. He could be seen from there, as well as from the bridge; but he did not mind this, nor anything else.
“As well here, as elsewhere,” he said to himself.
He had just drawn his pistol out, when he heard someone call:
“Hector! Hector!”
He jumped up at a bound, concealed the pistol, and looked about. A man was running down the embankment toward him with outstretched arms. This was a man of his own age, rather stout, but well shaped, with a fine open face and, large black eyes in which one read frankness and good-nature;
