"They are entering! Must I then kill you with my own hand?"
"Pardon!"
"The door gives way! You will then have it so!"
And the comte placed the muzzle of the weapon against Florestan's breast.
The noise without announced that the door of the cabinet could not long resist. The vicomte saw he was lost. A sudden and desperate resolution lighted up his countenance. He no longer struggled with his father, and he said to him, with equal firmness and resignation:
"You are right, my father! Give me the pistol! There is infamy enough on my name! The life in store for me is frightful, and is not worth the trouble of a struggle. Give me the pistol! You shall see if I am a coward!" and he put forth his hand to take the pistol. "But, at least, one word,—one single word of consolation,—pity,—farewell!" said Florestan; and his trembling lips, his paleness, his agitated features, all betokened the terrible emotion of this frightful moment.
"But what if he were, indeed, my son!" thought the comte, with terror, and hesitating to hand him the deadly instrument. "If he were my son I ought to hesitate before such a sacrifice."
A loud cracking of the cabinet door announced that it was being forced.
"My father, they are coming! Oh, now I feel that death is indeed a benefit. Yes, now I thank you! But, at least, your hand,—and forgive me!"
In spite of his sternness, the comte could not repress a shudder, as he said, in a voice of emotion: