A cry of rage like a hollow rattle burst from the advocate’s breast. His lips, which were hanging through terror, now grew firm. Overwhelmed in the very midst of his triumph, he struggled against this fright. He drew himself up with a look of defiance.
M. de Commarin, without seeming to pay any attention to Noel, approached his writing table, and opened a drawer.
“My duty,” said he, “would be to leave you to the executioner who awaits you; but I remember that I have the misfortune to be your father. Sit down; write and sign a confession of your crime. You will then find fire-arms in this drawer. May heaven forgive you!”
The old nobleman moved towards the door. Noel with a sign stopped him, and drawing at the same time a revolver from his pocket, he said: “Your fire-arms are needless, sir; my precautions, as you see, are already taken; they will never catch me alive. Only——”
“Only?” repeated the count harshly.
“I must tell you, sir,” continued the advocate coldly, “that I do not choose to kill myself—at least, not at present.”
“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin in disgust, “you are a coward!”
“No, sir, not a coward; but I will not kill myself until I am sure that every opening is closed against me, that I cannot save myself.”
“Miserable wretch!” said the count, threateningly, “must I then do it myself?”
He moved towards the drawer, but Noel closed it with a kick.