Sernine saw a man seated at a table facing him. It was the poet, Gérard Baupré. He was writing by the light of a candle.
Above his head hung a rope, which was fastened to a hook fixed in the ceiling. At the end of the rope was a slip-knot.
A faint stroke sounded from a clock in the street.
"Five minutes to twelve," thought Sernine. "Five minutes more."
The young man was still writing. After a moment, he put down his pen, collected the ten or twelve sheets of paper which he had covered and began to read them over.
What he read did not seem to please him, for an expression of discontent passed across his face. He tore up his manuscript and burnt the pieces in the flame of the candle.
Then, with a fevered hand, he wrote a few words on a clean sheet, signed it savagely and rose from his chair.
But, seeing the rope at ten inches above his head, he sat down again suddenly with a great shudder of alarm.
Sernine distinctly saw his pale features, his lean cheeks, against which he pressed his clenched fists. A tear trickled slowly down his face, a single, disconsolate tear. His eyes gazed into space, eyes terrifying in their unutterable sadness, eyes that already seemed to behold the dread unknown.
And it was so young a face! Cheeks still so smooth, with not a blemish, not a wrinkle! And blue eyes, blue like an eastern sky! . . .