in the darkness. The
passers-by came and went, and more than one examined him from the corner
of the eye, wondering what this tall man was doing there, and if he
intended to throw himself into the water.

And why not? What better could he do?

And this was what Saniel said to himself while watching the flowing
water. One plunge, and he would end the fierce battle in which he had so
madly engaged for four years, and which would in the end drive him mad.

It was not the first time that this idea of ending everything had
tempted him, and he only warded it off by constantly inventing
combinations which it seemed to him at the moment might save him. Why
yield to such a temptation before trying everything? And this was how he
happened to appeal to Glady. But he knew him, and knew that his avarice,
about which every one joked, had a certain reason for its existence.
However, he said to himself that if the landed proprietor obstinately
refused a friendly loan, which would only pay the debts of youth,
the poet would willingly fill the role of Providence and save from
shipwreck, without risking anything, a man with a future, who, later,
would pay him back. It was with this hope that he risked a refusal.
The landed proprietor replied; the poet was silent. And now there was
nothing to expect from any one. Glady was his last resort.

In explaining his situation to Glady he lightened the misery instead of
exaggerating it. For it was not only his upholsterer that he owed, but
also his tailor, his bootmaker, his coal-dealer, his concierge, and
all those with whom he had dealings. In reality, his creditors had not
harassed him very much until lately, but this state of affairs would
not last when they saw him prosecuted; they also would sue him, and how
could he defend himself? How should he live? His only resource would be
to return to the Hotel du Senat, where even they would not leave him in
peace, or to his native town and become a country doctor. In either case
it was renouncing all his ambitions. Would it not be better to die?

What good was life if his dreams were not realized--if he had nothing
that he wanted?

Like many who frequently come in contact with death, life in itself
was a small thing to him--his own life as well as that of others; with
Hamlet he said: "To die, to sleep, no more," but without adding: "To
die, to sleep, perchance to dream," feeling certain that the dead do not
dream; and what is better than sleep