The workmen dashed forward to lift him up.  He had already arisen to his knees, stupefied, with bewildered eyes and passing his hand across his forehead, as if he were awaking from an attack of madness.

When he had got to his feet once more the men, astonished, questioned him, not being able to understand what he had done.  He replied in faltering tones that he had been dazed for a moment, or, rather, he had been thinking of his childhood days; that he thought he would have time to run under the tree, just as street boys rush in front of vehicles driving rapidly past; that he had played at danger; that for the past eight days he felt this desire growing stronger within him, asking himself each time a tree began to fall whether he could pass beneath it without being touched.  It was a piece of stupidity, he confessed, but every one has these moments of insanity and these temptations to boyish folly.

He made this explanation in a slow tone, searching for his words, and speaking in a colorless tone.

Then he went off, saying: 

“Till to-morrow, my friends-till to-morrow.”

As soon as he got back to his room he sat down at his table which his lamp lighted up brightly, and, burying his head in his hands, he began to cry.

He remained thus for a long time, then wiped his eyes, raised his head and looked at the clock.  It was not yet six o’clock.

He thought: 

“I have time before dinner.”

And he went to the door and locked it.  He then came back, and, sitting down at his table, pulled out the middle drawer.  Taking from it a revolver, he laid it down on his papers in full view.  The barrel of the firearm glittered, giving out gleams of light.

Renardet gazed at it for some time with the uneasy glance of a drunken man.  Then he rose and began to pace up and down the room.

He walked from one end of the apartment to the other, stopping from time to time, only to pace up and down again a moment afterward.  Suddenly he opened the door of his dressing-room, steeped a towel in the water pitcher and moistened his forehead, as he had done on the morning of the crime.

Then he, began walking up and down again.  Each time he passed the table the gleaming revolver attracted his glance, tempted his hand, but he kept watching the clock and reflected: 

“I have still time.”

It struck half-past six.  Then he took up the revolver, opened his mouth wide with a frightful grimace and stuck the barrel into it as if he wanted to swallow it.  He remained in this position for some seconds without moving, his finger on the trigger.  Then, suddenly seized with a shudder of horror, he dropped the pistol on the carpet.

He fell back on his armchair, sobbing: 

“I cannot.  I dare not!  My God! my God!  How can I have the courage to kill myself?’”

There was a knock at the door.  He rose up, bewildered.  A servant said: