"Kill me?"
"There is already too much dishonour on my name,—it must end. I have here two pistols; you must blow out your brains, or I will blow them out, and I will say that you killed yourself in despair in order to escape from shame."
And, with a fearful sang-froid, the comte drew a pistol from his pocket, and, with the hand that was free, presented it to his son, saying:
"Now an end to this, if, indeed, you are not a coward!"
After repeated and ineffectual attempts to free himself from the comte's hand, his son fell back aghast and livid with fear. He saw by the fearful look, the inexorable demeanour of his father, that he had no pity to expect from him.
"My father!" he exclaimed.
"You must die!"
"I repent!"
"It is too late. Hark! They are forcing in the door!"
"I will expiate my faults!"