The Count's Millions [49]
"that is the only thing left me to do."
When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, and wrote two letters--one to his mother, the other to the president of the order of Advocates. After a moment's thought he began a third, but tore it into pieces before he had completed it. Then, without an instant's hesitation, and like a man who had fully decided upon his course, he took a revolver and a box of cartridges from a drawer in his desk. "Poor mother!" he murmured; "it will kill her--but my disgrace would kill her too. Better shorten the agony."
He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his gestures, each contraction of his features, were viewed by the mother whose name he faltered. Since her son had left her to go to the Palais de Justice, the poor woman had remained almost crazy with anxiety; and when she heard him return and lock himself in his office--a thing he had never done before--a fearful presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into her son's bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with his office. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was possible to see what was occurring in the adjoining room. When Madame Ferailleur perceived Pascal seat himself at his desk and begin to write, she felt a trifle reassured, and almost thought of going away. But a vague dread, stronger than reason or will, riveted her to the spot. A few moments later, when she saw the revolver in her son's hand, she understood everything. Her blood froze in her veins; and yet she had sufficient self-control to repress the cry of terror which sprang to her lips. She realized that the danger was terrible, imminent, extreme. Her heart, rather than her bewildered reason, told her that her son's life hung on a single thread. The slightest sound, a word, a rap on the door might hasten the unfortunate man's deed.
An inspiration from heaven came to the poor mother. Pascal had contented himself with locking the door leading to the ante-room. He had forgotten this one, or neglected it, not thinking that anybody would approach his office through his bedroom. But his mother perceived that this door opened toward her. So, turning the knob with the utmost caution, she flung it suddenly open, and reaching her son's side with a single bound, she clasped him closely in her arms. "Pascal, wretched boy! what would you do?"
He was so surprised that his weapon fell from his hand, and he sank back almost fainting in his arm-chair. The idea of denying his intention never once occurred to him; besides, he was unable to articulate a word. But on his desk there lay a letter addressed to his mother which would speak for him.
Madame Ferailleur took it, tore the envelope open, and read: "Forgive me--I'm about to die. It must be so. I cannot survive dishonor; and I am dishonored."
"Dishonored!--you!" exclaimed the heartbroken mother. "My God! what does this mean? Speak. I implore you: tell me all--you must. I command you to do so. I command you!"
He complied with this at once supplicating and imperious behest, and related in a despairing voice the events which had wrought his woe. He did not omit a single particular, but tried rather to exaggerate than palliate the horrors of his situation. Perhaps he found a strange satisfaction in proving to himself that there was no hope left; possibly he believed his mother would say: "Yes, you are right; and death is your only refuge!"
As Madame Ferailleur listened, however, her eyes dilated with fear and horror, and she scarcely realized whether she were awake or in the midst of some frightful dream. For this was one of those unexpected catastrophes which are beyond the range of human foresight or even imagination, and which her mind could scarcely conceive or admit. But SHE did not doubt him, even though his friends had doubted him. Indeed, if he had himself told her that he was guilty of cheating at cards, she would have refused to believe him. When his story was ended, she exclaimed: "And you wished to kill yourself?
When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, and wrote two letters--one to his mother, the other to the president of the order of Advocates. After a moment's thought he began a third, but tore it into pieces before he had completed it. Then, without an instant's hesitation, and like a man who had fully decided upon his course, he took a revolver and a box of cartridges from a drawer in his desk. "Poor mother!" he murmured; "it will kill her--but my disgrace would kill her too. Better shorten the agony."
He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his gestures, each contraction of his features, were viewed by the mother whose name he faltered. Since her son had left her to go to the Palais de Justice, the poor woman had remained almost crazy with anxiety; and when she heard him return and lock himself in his office--a thing he had never done before--a fearful presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into her son's bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with his office. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was possible to see what was occurring in the adjoining room. When Madame Ferailleur perceived Pascal seat himself at his desk and begin to write, she felt a trifle reassured, and almost thought of going away. But a vague dread, stronger than reason or will, riveted her to the spot. A few moments later, when she saw the revolver in her son's hand, she understood everything. Her blood froze in her veins; and yet she had sufficient self-control to repress the cry of terror which sprang to her lips. She realized that the danger was terrible, imminent, extreme. Her heart, rather than her bewildered reason, told her that her son's life hung on a single thread. The slightest sound, a word, a rap on the door might hasten the unfortunate man's deed.
An inspiration from heaven came to the poor mother. Pascal had contented himself with locking the door leading to the ante-room. He had forgotten this one, or neglected it, not thinking that anybody would approach his office through his bedroom. But his mother perceived that this door opened toward her. So, turning the knob with the utmost caution, she flung it suddenly open, and reaching her son's side with a single bound, she clasped him closely in her arms. "Pascal, wretched boy! what would you do?"
He was so surprised that his weapon fell from his hand, and he sank back almost fainting in his arm-chair. The idea of denying his intention never once occurred to him; besides, he was unable to articulate a word. But on his desk there lay a letter addressed to his mother which would speak for him.
Madame Ferailleur took it, tore the envelope open, and read: "Forgive me--I'm about to die. It must be so. I cannot survive dishonor; and I am dishonored."
"Dishonored!--you!" exclaimed the heartbroken mother. "My God! what does this mean? Speak. I implore you: tell me all--you must. I command you to do so. I command you!"
He complied with this at once supplicating and imperious behest, and related in a despairing voice the events which had wrought his woe. He did not omit a single particular, but tried rather to exaggerate than palliate the horrors of his situation. Perhaps he found a strange satisfaction in proving to himself that there was no hope left; possibly he believed his mother would say: "Yes, you are right; and death is your only refuge!"
As Madame Ferailleur listened, however, her eyes dilated with fear and horror, and she scarcely realized whether she were awake or in the midst of some frightful dream. For this was one of those unexpected catastrophes which are beyond the range of human foresight or even imagination, and which her mind could scarcely conceive or admit. But SHE did not doubt him, even though his friends had doubted him. Indeed, if he had himself told her that he was guilty of cheating at cards, she would have refused to believe him. When his story was ended, she exclaimed: "And you wished to kill yourself?