All
seemed happy and contented, and their gayety seemed to insult
Hector's wretchedness. He left the main road at the Sevres bridge,
and descending the embankment reached the borders of the Seine.
Kneeling down, he took up some water in the palm of his hand, and
drank--an invincible lassitude crept over him. He sat, or rather
fell, upon the sward. The fever of despair came, and death now
seemed to him a refuge, which he could almost welcome with joy.
Some feet above him the windows of a Sevres restaurant opened toward
the river. He could be seen from them, as well as from the bridge;
but he did not mind this, nor anything else.
"As well here, as elsewhere," he said to himself.
He had just drawn his pistol out, when he heard someone call:
"Hector! Hector!"
He jumped up at a bound, concealed the pistol, and looked about.
A man was running down the embankment toward him with outstretched
arms. This was a man of his own age, rather stout, but well shaped,
with a fine open face and, large black eyes in which one read
frankness and good-nature; one of those men who are sympathetic at
first sight, whom one loves on a week's acquaintance.
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