"I repent!"
"It is too late! Do you hear? they will break down the door!"
"I will expiate my faults!"
"They are going to enter! Must I, then, kill you?"
"Pardon!"
"The door will give way! You will have it so." And the count placed the pistol against the breast of his son.
The viscount saw that he was lost. He took a sudden and desperate resolution; no longer struggling with his father, he said, with firmness and resignation, "You are right, my father; give me this pistol. There is infamy enough attached to my name; the life that awaits me is frightful, it is not worth contending for. Give me the pistol. You shall see if I am a coward." And he extended his hand. "But, at least, a word, one single word of consolation, of pity, of farewell," said Florestan. His trembling lips and ashy paleness evinced the emotion of his trying situation.
"If this should be my son!" thought the count, hesitating to give him the instrument, "if this is my son, I ought still less to hesitate at this sacrifice." The door of the cabinet was broken in with a tremendous crash.
"Father—they come—oh! I feel now that death is a benefaction.
Thanks, thanks! but at least your hand, and pardon me!"
Notwithstanding his firmness, the count could not prevent a shudder, and said, in a broken voice, "I pardon you."