He was awakened by three
or four heavy raps on the door, which he hastily opened. It was the
waiter, who had come to take his order for breakfast, and who started
back with amazement on seeing Hector, so disordered was his clothing
and so livid the pallor of his features.
"I want nothing," said the count. "I'm going down."
He had just enough money left to pay his bill, and six sous for the
waiter. He quitted the hotel where he had suffered so much, without
end or aim in view. He was more resolved than ever to die, only he
yearned for several days of respite to nerve himself for the deed.
But how could he live during these days? He had not so much as a
centime left. An idea struck him--the pawnbrokers!
He knew that at the Monte-de-Piete* a certain amount would be
advanced to him on his jewelry. But where find a branch office?
He dared not ask, but hunted for one at hazard. He now held his
head up, walked with a firmer step; he was seeking something, and
had a purpose to accomplish. He at last saw the sign of the
Monte-de-Piete on a house in the Rue Conde, and entered. The hall
was small, damp, filthy, and full of people.
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