In explaining his situation to Glady he lightened the misery instead of exaggerating it.  For it was not only his upholsterer that he owed, but also his tailor, his bootmaker, his coal-dealer, his concierge, and all those with whom he had dealings.  In reality, his creditors had not harassed him very much until lately, but this state of affairs would not last when they saw him prosecuted; they also would sue him, and how could he defend himself?  How should he live?  His only resource would be to return to the Hotel du Senat, where even they would not leave him in peace, or to his native town and become a country doctor.  In either case it was renouncing all his ambitions.  Would it not be better to die?

What good was life if his dreams were not realized—­if he had nothing that he wanted?

Like many who frequently come in contact with death, life in itself was a small thing to him—­his own life as well as that of others; with Hamlet he said:  “To die, to sleep, no more,” but without adding:  “To die, to sleep, perchance to dream,” feeling certain that the dead do not dream; and what is better than sleep to those who have had a hard life?

He was absorbed in thought when something came between him and the flaring gaslight, and threw a shadow over him that made him straighten himself up.  What was it?  Only a policeman, who came and leaned against the parapet near him.

He understood.  His attitude was that of a man who contemplates throwing himself into the river, and the policeman had placed himself there in order to prevent it.

“Thanks!” he said to the astonished man.

He continued his way, walking quickly, but hearing distinctly the steps of the policeman following him, who evidently took him for a madman who must be watched.

When he left the bridge of Saints-Peres for the Place du Carrousel this surveillance ceased, and he could then indulge freely in reflection—­at least as freely as his trouble and discouragement permitted.

“The weak kill themselves; the strong fight to their last breath.”

And, low as he was, he was not yet at his last breath.

When he decided to appeal to Glady he had hesitated between him and a usurer named Caffie, whom he did not know personally, but whom he had heard spoken of as a rascal who was interested in all sorts of affairs, preferring the bad to the good—­of successions, marriages, interdictions, extortions; and if he had not been to him it was for fear of being refused, as much as from the dread of putting himself in such hands in case of meeting with compliance.  But these scruples and these fears were useless now; since Glady failed him, cost what it might and happen what would, he must go to this scamp for assistance.

He knew that Caffie lived in the Rue Sainte-Anne, but he did not know the number.  He had only to go to one of his patients, a wine-merchant in the Rue Therese, to find his address in the directory.  It was but a step, and he decided to run the risk; there was need of haste.  Discouraged by all the applications that he had made up to this time, disheartened by betrayed hopes, irritated by rebuffs, he did not deceive himself as to the chances of this last attempt, but at least he would try it, slight though the hope of success might be.