ce of stupidity, he confessed, but
every one has these moments of insanity and these temptations to boyish
folly.

He made this explanation in a slow tone, searching for his words, and
speaking in a colorless tone.

Then he went off, saying:

"Till to-morrow, my friends-till to-morrow."

As soon as he got back to his room he sat down at his table which his
lamp lighted up brightly, and, burying his head in his hands, he began
to cry.

He remained thus for a long time, then wiped his eyes, raised his head
and looked at the clock. It was not yet six o'clock.

He thought:

"I have time before dinner."

And he went to the door and locked it. He then came back, and, sitting
down at his table, pulled out the middle drawer. Taking from it a
revolver, he laid it down on his papers in full view. The barrel of the
firearm glittered, giving out gleams of light.

Renardet gazed at it for some time with the uneasy glance of a drunken
man. Then he rose and began to pace up and down the room.

He walked from one end of the apartment to the other, stopping from time
to time, only to pace up and down again a moment afterward. Suddenly
he opened the door of his dressing-room, steeped a towel in the water
pitcher and moistened his forehead, as he had done on the morning of the
crime.

Then he, began walking up and down again. Each time he passed the table
the gleaming revolver attracted his glance, tempted his hand, but he
kept watching the clock and reflected:

"I have still time."

It struck half-past six. Then he took up the revolver, opened his mouth
wide with a frightful grimace and stuck the barrel into it as if he
wanted to swallow it. He remained in this position for some seconds
without moving, his finger on the trigger. Then, suddenly seized with a
shudder of horror, he dropped the pistol on the carpet.

He fell back on his armchair, sobbing:

"I cannot. I dare not! My God! my God! How can I have the courage to
kill myself?'"

There was a knock at the door. He rose up, bewildered. A servant said:

"Monsieur's dinner is ready."

He replied:

"All right. I'm coming down."

Then he picked up the revolver, locked it up again in the drawer and
looked at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece to see whether his
face did not look too much troubled. It was as red as usual, a little
redder perhaps. That was all. He went down and seated himself at table.

He ate slowly, like a man who wants to prolong the