felt like a drunkard whose head is filled with the
vapors of alcohol, and who, when he is roused, tries to remember what
has happened during his intoxication. Alas! I recalled the fearful
reality but too soon. I knew that I ought to go back to prison, that
it was an absolute necessity; and yet I felt at times so weary, so
exhausted, that I was afraid I should not be able to get back. Still I
did reach the prison. Blangin was waiting for me, all anxiety; for it
was nearly two o'clock. He helped me to get up here. I threw myself, all
dressed as I was, on my bed, and I fell fast asleep in an instant. But
my sleep was a miserable sleep, broken by terrible dreams, in which
I saw myself chained to the galleys, or mounting the scaffold with a
priest by my side; and even at this moment I hardly know whether I am
awake or asleep, and whether I am not still suffering under a fearful
nightmare."

M. Folgat could hardly conceal a tear. He murmured,--

"Poor man!"

"Oh, yes, poor man indeed!" repeated Jacques. "Why did I not follow my
first inspiration last night when I found myself on the high-road. I
should have gone on to Boiscoran, I should have gone up stairs to my
room, and there I should have blown out my brains. I should then suffer
no more."

Was he once more giving himself up to that fatal idea of suicide?

"And your parents," said M. Folgat.

"My parents! And do you think they will survive my condemnation?"

"And Miss Chandore?"

He shuddered, and said fiercely,--

"Ah! it is for her sake first of all that I ought to make an end of it.
Poor Dionysia! Certainly she would grieve terribly when she heard of
my suicide. But she is not twenty yet. My memory would soon fade in her
heart; and weeks growing into months, and months into years, she would
find comfort. To live means to forget."

"No! You cannot really think what you are saying!" broke in M. Folgat.
"You know very well that she--she would never forget you!"

A tear appeared in the eyes of the unfortunate man, and he said in a
half-smothered voice,--

"You are right. I believe to strike me down means to strike her down
also. But do you think what life would be after a condemnation? Can you
imagine what her sensations would be, if day after day she had to say
to herself, 'He whom alone I love upon earth is at the galleys, mixed up
with the lowest of criminals, disgraced for life, dishonored.' Ah! death
is a thousand times preferable."

"Jacques, M. de