s afraid, but would not confess it to himself. He put his
pistols back on the table and returned to his seat near the fire.
All his limbs were trembling.

"It's nervousness," he muttered. "It'll pass off."

He gave himself till one o'clock. He tried to convince himself of
the necessity of committing suicide. If he did not, what would
become of him? How would he live? Must he make up his mind to work?
Besides, could he appear in the world, when all Paris knew of his
intention? This thought goaded him to fury; he had a sudden courage,
and grasped his pistols. But the sensation which the touch of the
cold steel gave him, caused him to drop his arm and draw away
shuddering.

"I cannot," repeated he, in his anguish. "I cannot!"

The idea of the physical pain of shooting himself filled him with
horror. Why had he not a gentler death? Poison, or perhaps
charcoal--like the little cook? He did not fear the ludicrousness
of this now; all that he feared was, that the courage to kill
himself would fail him.

He went on extending his time of grace from half-hour to half-hour.
It was a horrible night, full of the agony of the last night of the
criminal condemned to the scaffold. He wept with grief and rage
and wrung his hands and prayed. Toward daylight he fell 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-Piete* 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