[* The public pawnbroker establishment of Paris, which has branch bureaus through the city.]

“See,” said she, “put your articles on this counter, before that window with green curtains.”

A moment after he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the next room: 

“Twelve hundred francs for the watch and ring.”

This large amount produced such a sensation as to arrest all the conversation.  All eyes were turned toward the millionnaire who was going to pocket such a fortune.  The millionnaire made no response.

The same woman who had spoken before nudged his arm.

“That’s for you,” said she.  “Answer whether you will take it or not.”

“I’ll take it,” cried Hector.

He was filled with a joy which made him forget the night’s torture.  Twelve hundred francs!  How many days it would last!  Had he not heard there were clerks who hardly got that in a year?

Hector waited a long time, when one of the clerks, who was writing at a desk, called out: 

“Whose are the twelve hundred francs?”

The count stepped forward.

“Mine,” said he.

“Your name?”

Hector hesitated.  He would never give his name aloud in such a place as this.  He gave the first name that occurred to him.

“Durand.”

“Where are your papers?”

“What papers?”

“A passport, a receipt for lodgings, a license to hunt—­”

“I haven’t any.”

“Go for them, or bring two well-known witnesses.”

“But—­”

“There is no ‘but.’  The next—­”

Hector was provoked by the clerk’s abrupt manner.

“Well, then,” said he, “give me back the jewelry.”

The clerk looked at him jeeringly.

“Can’t be done.  No goods that are registered, can be returned without proof of rightful possession.”  So saying, he went on with his work.  “One French shawl, thirty-five francs, whose is it?”

Hector meanwhile went out of the establishment.  He had never suffered so much, had never imagined that one could suffer so much.  After this ray of hope, so abruptly put out, the clouds lowered over him thicker and more hopelessly.  He was worse off than the shipwrecked sailor; the pawnbroker had taken his last resources.  All the romance with which he had invested the idea of his suicide now vanished, leaving bare the stern and ignoble reality.  He must kill himself, not like the gay gamester who voluntarily leaves upon the roulette table the remains of his fortune, but like the Greek, who surprised and hunted, knows that every door will be shut upon him.  His death would not be voluntary; he could neither hesitate nor choose the fatal hour; he must kill himself because he had not the means of living one day longer.