ed by misfortune is once able to make the fiction of a
hope for himself by a series of arguments, more or less reasonable, with
which he bolsters himself up to rest his head, it often happens that he
is really saved. Many a man has derived energy from the confidence born
of illusions. Possibly, hope is the better half of courage; indeed,
the Catholic religion makes it a virtue. Hope! has it not sustained
the weak, and given the fainting heart time and patience to await the
chances and changes of life? Cesar resolved to confide his situation to
his wife's uncle before seeking for succor elsewhere. But as he walked
down the Rue Saint-Honore towards the Rue des Bourdonnais, he endured an
inward anguish and distress which shook him so violently that he
fancied his health was giving way. His bowels seemed on fire. It is an
established fact that persons who feel through their diaphragms suffer
in those parts when overtaken by misfortune, just as others whose
perceptions are in their heads suffer from cerebral pains and
affections. In great crises, the physical powers are attacked at the
point where the individual temperament has placed the vital spark.
Feeble beings have the colic. Napoleon slept. Before assailing the
confidence of a life-long friendship, and breaking down all the barriers
of pride and self-assurance, an honorable man must needs feel in
his heart--and feel it more than once--the spur of that cruel rider,
necessity. Thus it happened that Birotteau had been goaded for two days
before he could bring himself to seek his uncle; it was, indeed, only
family reasons which finally decided him to do so. In any state of
the case, it was his duty to explain his position to the severe old
ironmonger, his wife's uncle. Nevertheless, as he reached the house
he felt that inward faintness which a child feels when taken to a
dentist's; but this shrinking of the heart involved the whole of his
life, past, present, and to come,--it was not the fugitive pain of a
moment. He went slowly up the stairs.

II

The old man was reading the "Constitutionnel" in his chimney-corner,
before a little round table on which stood his frugal breakfast,--a
roll, some butter, a plate of Brie cheese, and a cup of coffee.

"Here is true wisdom," thought Birotteau, envying his uncle's life.

"Well!" said Pillerault, taking off his spectacles, "I heard at the cafe
David last night about Roguin's affair, and the assassination of his
mistress,