And life never before seemed to him so sweet a thing as now.  He never felt so keenly the exuberance of his youth and strength.  He suddenly discovered all about him a crowd of pleasures each more enviable than the others, which he had never tasted.  He who flattered himself that he had squeezed life to press out its pleasures, had not really lived.  He had had all that is to be bought or sold, nothing of what is given or achieved.  He already not only regretted giving the ten thousand francs to Jenny, but the two hundred francs to the servants—­nay the six sous given to the waiter at the restaurant, even the money he had spent on the bunch of violets.  The bouquet still hung in his buttonhole, faded and shrivelled.  What good did it do him?  While the sous which he had paid for it—!  He did not think of his wasted millions, but could not drive away the thought of that wasted franc!

True, he might, if he chose, find plenty of money still, and easily.  He had only to return quietly to his house, to discharge the bailiffs, and to resume the possession of his remaining effects.  But he would thus confront the world, and confess his terrors to have overcome him at the last moment; he would have to suffer glances more cruel than the pistol-ball.  The world must not be deceived; when a man announces that he is going to kill himself—­he must kill himself.

So Hector was going to die because he had said he would, because the newspapers had announced the fact.  He confessed this to himself as he went along, and bitterly reproached himself.

He remembered a pretty spot in Viroflay forest, where he had once fought a duel; he would commit the deed there.  He hastened toward it.  The weather was fine and he met many groups of young people going into the country for a good time.  Workmen were drinking and clinking their glasses under the trees along the river-bank.  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.