Then, without an instant's hesitation, and like a man who had
fully decided upon his course, he took a revolver and a box of
cartridges from a drawer in his desk. "Poor mother!" he murmured;
"it will kill her--but my disgrace would kill her too. Better
shorten the agony."
He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his
gestures, each contraction of his features, were viewed by the
mother whose name he faltered. Since her son had left her to go
to the Palais de Justice, the poor woman had remained almost crazy
with anxiety; and when she heard him return and lock himself in
his office--a thing he had never done before--a fearful
presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into her son's
bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with his
office. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was
possible to see what was occurring in the adjoining room. When
Madame Ferailleur perceived Pascal seat himself at his desk and
begin to write, she felt a trifle reassured, and almost thought of
going away. But a vague dread, stronger than reason or will,
riveted her to the spot. A few moments later, when she saw the
revolver in her son's hand, she understood everything. Her blood
froze in her veins; and yet she had sufficient self-control to
repress the cry of terror which sprang to her lips. She realized
that the danger was terrible, imminent, extreme. Her heart,
rather than her bewildered reason, told her that her son's life
hung on a single thread.
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