ent'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
spe