"It'll pass off."
He gave himself till one o'clock. He tried to convince himself of
the necessity of committing suicide. If he did not, what would
become of him? How would he live? Must he make up his mind to work?
Besides, could he appear in the world, when all Paris knew of his
intention? This thought goaded him to fury; he had a sudden courage,
and grasped his pistols. But the sensation which the touch of the
cold steel gave him, caused him to drop his arm and draw away
shuddering.
"I cannot," repeated he, in his anguish. "I cannot!"
The idea of the physical pain of shooting himself filled him with
horror. Why had he not a gentler death? Poison, or perhaps
charcoal--like the little cook? He did not fear the ludicrousness
of this now; all that he feared was, that the courage to kill
himself would fail him.
He went on extending his time of grace from half-hour to half-hour.
It was a horrible night, full of the agony of the last night of the
criminal condemned to the scaffold. He wept with grief and rage
and wrung his hands and prayed. Toward daylight he fell exhausted
into an uneasy slumber, in his arm-chair.
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