Thus it was that when the valet came in and said, “The bailiff is here,” he seemed like a spectre commanding suicide.

Hector took the announcement coolly and said, as he got up: 

“Well, here’s an end of it.”

He was very calm, though a little confused.  A little confusion is excusable when a man passes from wealth to beggary.  He thought he would make his last toilet with especial care.  Parbleu!  The French nobility goes into battle in court costume!  He was ready in less than an hour.  He put on his bejewelled watch-chain; then he put a pair of little pistols, of the finest quality, in his overcoat pocket; then he sent the valet away, and opening his desk, he counted up what funds he had left.  Ten thousand and some hundreds of francs remained.  He might with this sum take a journey, prolong his life two or three months; but he repelled with disdain the thought of a miserable subterfuge, of a reprieve in disguise.  He imagined that with this money he might make a great show of generosity, which would be talked of in the world; it would be chivalrous to breakfast with his inamorata and make her a present of this money at dessert.  During the meal he would be full of nervous gayety, of cynical humor, and then he would announce his intention to kill himself.  The girl would not fail to narrate the scene everywhere; she would repeat his last conversation, his last will and gift; all the cafes would buzz with it at night; the papers would be full of it.

This idea strangely excited him, and comforted him at once.  He was going out, when his eyes fell upon the mass of papers in his desk.  Perhaps there was something there which might dim the positiveness of his resolution.  He emptied all the drawers without looking or choosing, and put all the papers in the fire.  He looked with pride upon this conflagration; there were bills, love letters, business letters, bonds, patents of nobility, deeds of property.  Was it not his brilliant past which flickered and consumed in the fireplace?

The bailiff occurred to him, and he hastily descended.  He was the most polite of bailiffs, a man of taste and wit, a friend of artists, himself a poet at times.  He had already seized eight horses in the stables with all their harness and trappings, and five carriages with their equipage, in the carriage-house.

“I’m going on slowly, Count,” said he bowing.  “Perhaps you wish to arrest the execution.  The sum is large, to be sure, but a man in your position—­”

“Believe that you are here because it suits me,” interrupted Hector, proudly, “this house doesn’t suit me; I shall never enter it again.  So, as you are master, go on.”

And wheeling round on his heel he went off.

The astonished bailiff proceeded with his work.  He went from room to room, admiring and seizing.  He seized cups gained at the races, collections of pipes and arms, and the library, containing many sporting-books, superbly bound.