Two minutes after twelve—­Hector still held the pistol against his forehead.

“Am I going to be afraid?” he asked himself.

He was afraid, but would not confess it to himself.  He put his pistols back on the table and returned to his seat near the fire.  All his limbs were trembling.

“It’s nervousness,” he muttered.  “It’ll pass off.”

He gave himself till one o’clock.  He tried to convince himself of the necessity of committing suicide.  If he did not, what would become of him?  How would he live?  Must he make up his mind to work?  Besides, could he appear in the world, when all Paris knew of his intention?  This thought goaded him to fury; he had a sudden courage, and grasped his pistols.  But the sensation which the touch of the cold steel gave him, caused him to drop his arm and draw away shuddering.

“I cannot,” repeated he, in his anguish.  “I cannot!”

The idea of the physical pain of shooting himself filled him with horror.  Why had he not a gentler death?  Poison, or perhaps charcoal—­like the little cook?  He did not fear the ludicrousness of this now; all that he feared was, that the courage to kill himself would fail him.

He went on extending his time of grace from half-hour to half-hour.  It was a horrible night, full of the agony of the last night of the criminal condemned to the scaffold.  He wept with grief and rage and wrung his hands and prayed.  Toward daylight he fell exhausted into an uneasy slumber, in his arm-chair.  He was awakened by three or four heavy raps on the door, which he hastily opened.  It was the waiter, who had come to take his order for breakfast, and who started back with amazement on seeing Hector, so disordered was his clothing and so livid the pallor of his features.

“I want nothing,” said the count.  “I’m going down.”

He had just enough money left to pay his bill, and six sous for the waiter.  He quitted the hotel where he had suffered so much, without end or aim in view.  He was more resolved than ever to die, only he yearned for several days of respite to nerve himself for the deed.  But how could he live during these days?  He had not so much as a centime left.  An idea struck him—­the pawnbrokers!

He knew that at the Monte-de-Piete* a certain amount would be advanced to him on his jewelry.  But where find a branch office?  He dared not ask, but hunted for one at hazard.  He now held his head up, walked with a firmer step; he was seeking something, and had a purpose to accomplish.  He at last saw the sign of the Monte-de-Piete on a house in the Rue Conde, and entered.  The hall was small, damp, filthy, and full of people.  But if the place was gloomy, the borrowers seemed to take their misfortunes good-humoredly.  They were mostly students and women, talking gayly as they waited for their turns.  The Count de Tremorel advanced with his watch, chain, and a brilliant diamond that he had taken from his finger.  He was seized with the timidity of misery, and did not know how to open his business.  A young woman pitied his embarrassment.