“Where am I?” he asked, with a hopeful gleam.
“In your own room,” said the elder man, looking with surprise at Godefroid’s neck, and at the nail to which the cord had been tied, and which was still in the knot.
“In heaven?” said the boy, in a voice of music.
“No; on earth!”
Godefroid rose and walked along the path of light traced on the floor by the moon through the window, which stood open; he saw the rippling Seine, the willows and plants on the island. A misty atmosphere hung over the waters like a smokey floor.
On seeing the view, to him so heartbreaking, he folded his hands over his bosom, and stood in an attitude of despair; the Exile came up to him with astonishment on his face.
“You meant to kill yourself?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Godefroid, while the stranger passed his hand about his neck again and again to feel the place where the rope had tightened on it.
But for some slight bruises, the young man had been but little hurt. His friend supposed that the nail had given way at once under the weight of the body, and the terrible attempt had ended in a fall without injury.
“And why, dear lad, did you try to kill yourself?”