He reflected and reasoned, but without his reason.  As soon as he arrived home he dressed himself with care, as was his custom formerly when visiting the Marchioness d’Arlange, and went out.  He first called at an armourer’s and bought a small revolver, which he caused to be carefully loaded under his own eyes, and put it into his pocket.  He then called on the different persons he supposed capable of informing him to what club the viscount belonged.  No one noticed the strange state of his mind, so natural were his manners and conversations.

It was not until the afternoon that a young friend of his gave him the name of Albert de Commarin’s club, and offered to conduct him thither, as he too was a member.

M. Daburon accepted warmly, and accompanied his friend.  While passing along, he grasped with frenzy the handle of the revolver which he kept concealed, thinking only of the murder he was determined to commit, and the means of insuring the accuracy of his aim.

“This will make a terrible scandal,” thought he, “above all if I do not succeed in blowing my own brains out.  I shall be arrested, thrown into prison, and placed upon my trial at the assizes.  My name will be dishonoured!  Bah! what does that signify?  Claire does not love me, so what care I for all the rest?  My father no doubt will die of grief, but I must have my revenge!”

On arriving at the club, his friend pointed out a very dark young man, with a haughty air, or what appeared so to him, who, seated at a table, was reading a review.  It was the viscount.

M. Daburon walked up to him without drawing his revolver.  But when within two paces, his heart failed him; he turned suddenly and fled, leaving his friend astonished at a scene, to him, utterly inexplicable.

Only once again will Albert de Commarin be as near death.

On reaching the street, it seemed to M. Daburon that the ground was receding from beneath him, that everything was turning around him.  He tried to cry out, but could not utter a sound; he struck at the air with his hands, reeled for an instant, and then fell all of a heap on the pavement.

The passers-by ran and assisted the police to raise him.  In one of his pockets they found his address, and carried him home.  When he recovered his senses, he was in his bed, at the foot of which he perceived his father.

“What has happened?” he asked.  With much caution they told him, that for six weeks he had wavered between life and death.  The doctors had declared his life saved; and, now that reason was restored, all would go well.

Five minutes’ conversation exhausted him.  He shut his eyes, and tried to collect his ideas; but they whirled hither and thither wildly, as autumn leaves in the wind.  The past seemed shrouded in a dark mist; yet, in the midst of the darkness and confusion, all that concerned Mademoiselle d’Arlange stood out clear and luminous.  All his actions from the moment when he embraced Claire appeared before him.  He shuddered, and his hair was in a moment soaking with perspiration.