Was he once more giving himself up to that fatal idea of suicide?
“And your parents,” said M. Folgat.
“My parents! And do you think they will survive my condemnation?”
“And Miss Chandore?”
He shuddered, and said fiercely,—
“Ah! it is for her sake first of all that I ought to make an end of it. Poor Dionysia! Certainly she would grieve terribly when she heard of my suicide. But she is not twenty yet. My memory would soon fade in her heart; and weeks growing into months, and months into years, she would find comfort. To live means to forget.”
“No! You cannot really think what you are saying!” broke in M. Folgat. “You know very well that she—she would never forget you!”
A tear appeared in the eyes of the unfortunate man, and he said in a half-smothered voice,—
“You are right. I believe to strike me down means to strike her down also. But do you think what life would be after a condemnation? Can you imagine what her sensations would be, if day after day she had to say to herself, ‘He whom alone I love upon earth is at the galleys, mixed up with the lowest of criminals, disgraced for life, dishonored.’ Ah! death is a thousand times preferable.”
“Jacques, M. de Boiscoran, do you forget that you have given me your word of honor?”