Then he, began walking up and down again. Each time he passed the table the gleaming revolver attracted his glance, tempted his hand, but he kept watching the clock and reflected:
“I have still time.”
It struck half-past six. Then he took up the revolver, opened his mouth wide with a frightful grimace and stuck the barrel into it as if he wanted to swallow it. He remained in this position for some seconds without moving, his finger on the trigger. Then, suddenly seized with a shudder of horror, he dropped the pistol on the carpet.
He fell back on his armchair, sobbing:
“I cannot. I dare not! My God! my God! How can I have the courage to kill myself?'”
There was a knock at the door. He rose up, bewildered. A servant said:
“Monsieur's dinner is ready.”
He replied:
“All right. I'm coming down.”
Then he picked up the revolver, locked it up again in the drawer and looked at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece to see whether his face did not look too much troubled. It was as red as usual, a little redder perhaps. That was all. He went down and seated himself at table.