“Listen to me, sir,” said he, in that hoarse, quick tone, which men use in moments of imminent danger, “do not let us waste in vain words the few moments’ respite left me. I have committed a crime, it is true, and I do not attempt to justify it; but who laid the foundation of it, if not yourself? Now, you do me the favor of offering me a pistol. Thanks. I must decline it. This generosity is not through any regard for me. You only wish to avoid the scandal of my trial, and the disgrace which cannot fail to reflect upon your name.”
The count was about to reply.
“Permit me,” interrupted Noel imperiously. “I do not choose to kill myself; I wish to save my life, if possible. Supply me with the means of escape; and I promise you that I will sooner die than be captured. I say, supply me with means, for I have not twenty francs in the world. My last thousand franc note was nearly all gone the day when—you understand me. There isn’t sufficient money at home to give my mother a decent burial. Therefore, I say, give me some money.”
“Never!”
“Then I will deliver myself up to justice, and you will see what will happen to the name you hold so dear!”
The count, mad with rage, rushed to his table for a pistol. Noel placed himself before him.
“Oh, do not let us have any struggle,” said he coldly; “I am the strongest.”
M. de Commarin recoiled. By thus speaking of the trial, of the scandal and of the disgrace, the advocate had made an impression upon him.
For a moment hesitating between love for his name and his burning desire to see this wretch punished, the old nobleman stood undecided.
Finally his feeling for his rank triumphed.