He took a
seat opposite the mineralogical museum. He reflected on his
position. He glanced back through the departed years, and did not
find one day among those many days which had left him one of those
gracious memories which delight and console. Millions had slipped
through his prodigal hands, and he could not recall a single useful
expenditure, a really generous one, amounting to twenty francs. He,
who had had so many friends, searched his memory in vain for the
name of a single friend whom he regretted to part from. The past
seemed to him like a faithful mirror; he was surprised, startled at
the folly of the pleasures, the inane delights, which had been the
end and aim of his existence. For what had he lived? For others.
"Ab, what a fool I was!" he muttered, "what a fool!"
After living for others, he was going to kill himself for others.
His heart became softened. Who would think of him, eight days
hence? Not one living being. Yes--Jenny, perhaps. Yet, no.
She would be consoled with a new lover in less than a week.
The bell for closing the garden rang. Night had come, and a thick
and damp mist had covered the city.
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