to those who have had a hard life?

He was absorbed in thought when something came between him and the
flaring gaslight, and threw a shadow over him that made him straighten
himself up. What was it? Only a policeman, who came and leaned against
the parapet near him.

He understood. His attitude was that of a man who contemplates throwing
himself into the river, and the policeman had placed himself there in
order to prevent it.

"Thanks!" he said to the astonished man.

He continued his way, walking quickly, but hearing distinctly the steps
of the policeman following him, who evidently took him for a madman who
must be watched.

When he left the bridge of Saints-Peres for the Place du Carrousel this
surveillance ceased, and he could then indulge freely in reflection--at
least as freely as his trouble and discouragement permitted.

"The weak kill themselves; the strong fight to their last breath."

And, low as he was, he was not yet at his last breath.

When he decided to appeal to Glady he had hesitated between him and a
usurer named Caffie, whom he did not know personally, but whom he had
heard spoken of as a rascal who was interested in all sorts of
affairs, preferring the bad to the good--of successions, marriages,
interdictions, extortions; and if he had not been to him it was for fear
of being refused, as much as from the dread of putting himself in such
hands in case of meeting with compliance. But these scruples and these
fears were useless now; since Glady failed him, cost what it might and
happen what would, he must go to this scamp for assistance.

He knew that Caffie lived in the Rue Sainte-Anne, but he did not know
the number. He had only to go to one of his patients, a wine-merchant
in the Rue Therese, to find his address in the directory. It was but
a step, and he decided to run the risk; there was need of haste.
Discouraged by all the applications that he had made up to this time,
disheartened by betrayed hopes, irritated by rebuffs, he did not deceive
himself as to the chances of this last attempt, but at least he would
try it, slight though the hope of success might be.

It was an old house where Caffie lived, and had been formerly a private
hotel; it was composed of two wings, one on the street, the other on an
inside court. A porte cochere gave access to this court, and under its
roof, near the staircase, was the concierge's lodge. Saniel knocked at
the door in vain; it was locked and would