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“ Then, sir,*’ replied one ot the clerks,
“ we become altogether useless to you.”
“Yes, useless ; but as it would be painful
for me to dismiss you. if you desire it, you
can remain, and receive the same salary.”
“I thank you much for your generosity,”
replied the first who had spoken, “ but as I
wish to improve in my profession, it would
he difficult for me to obtain this end by living
in idleness. You \yill, then, give me permis
sion to seek another place.”
“ I ask the same permission,” added the
second.
“Gentlemen.” replied Julian, “I approve
of your sentiments ; they are very laudable ;
go seek a place at your pleasure.”
Several days after, Julian returned to his
clients the cases which belonged to them.—
The two clerks had found employment, and
had taken leave, and the domestic had receiv
ed formal orders to reply to the pleaders who
presented themselves, that Monsieur no long
er took business.
“It is very fine, indeed,” thought Julian,
“ that I should be wearing out my brain in
sustaining intrigue and bad faith in a thou
sand and one processes, caused by cupidity
and hatred, and that, too. for such miserable
sums, whilst every day I can gain heaps of
gold, without any other trouble than that of
sitting five or six hours. Yes, yes, I did very
well in discarding those insipid clients, whose
foolish babbling is enough to deprive one of
sense : besides, it is evident that I cannot at
the same time attend to their affairs, and to
No. 36 —so fatal to others, yet so propitious
to me. It is, then;’ necessary to choose be
tween the two, and my choice is not very
doubtful. I think that I have decided well.
I have told my wife to seek larger and bet
ter furnished apartments than those we now
occupy ; for, really, I cannot live decently in
such a mean house, where there is neither
carriage-house nor stable. Apropos of stable,
I must go to my carriage-maker’s—l must
really go and order the caleche and tilbury
of which we were speaking. They are to be
of an altogether new form; the interior to
be trimmed with silk cloth, for that is the
most fashionable. But it is the horses which
trouble me most: lam undecided whether to
buy the sorrels or dapple greys. Afterwards,
i must think of the furniture. They say
that inlaid work is the rage now ; however,
the citron wood is very pretty; but it is easy
to make them accord with each other. I
will, therefore, have some of my furniture in
laid work, and some of citron wood. What
shall he the color of my liveries ? I believe
that the gris pe tie perl and the rose Hortensia
will produce the finest effect; no one will
have any thing so elegant and so fresh. Oh,
heavens! it is already ten o’clock. 1 must
go quick, or I shall not have time to make
all these arrangements before twelve o'clock;
and I must not fail to be at No. 36 at that
hour, or all the places in the first lank will
be taken, and in that case I shall have to
wait, which will make me lose both lime and
money. Really! I begin to think that riches
can be troublesome!”
At twelve precisely, Julian took his accus
-lomed seat beside the green carpet of No. 36.
He was soon provided with the pin and cards,
on which to mark each throw, by the little
waiter. For eight days, he had played with
astonishing fortune: his eighty thousand
francs were already doubled, and the greatest
uneasiness prevailed among the proprietors of
the house ; a meeting was held, to consult as
to the best means of discovering this play,
which threatened their ruin. They decided
that some men, whom they paid largely,
place themselves behind Julian, and
study carefully his manner of playing.
“ Trente-six. rouge, pair et passe.” cried the
banker, and his eye, w r hich burned with ma
lignant joy, followed the movements of Ju
lian, who drew from his portfolio twelve
bank bills of a thousand francs each, and
placed them upon the black color. The lit
§®®nr.asasa kanrh.mm
tie ball being put in motion by a sudden jerk,
turned quickly at first, more slowly after
wards, and at last fell into a little case. —
“ I)ix huit. rouge . pair et impasse ,” said the
banker, with a voice as grave as that of a
judge who pronounces a sentence of death,
and he immediately seized the twelve bank
bills which Julian had lost.
“He has lost,” murmured the spectators,
who felt as great a concern in his play as if
they had possessed a personal interest in his
winning: “twenty-two thousand francs lost.”
Large drops of sweat stood upon Julian’s
brow : he wiped his face with his handker
chief, and without betraying any other emo
tion, recommenced his play. At first, he
gained several throws: but, an instant after,
fortune changed ; he lost another twenty-two
thousand francs ; then his eyes became dim ;
his reason wandered ; he played without cal
culating. in hopes of re-winning promptly
that which he had lost ; but, far from re
winning. he lost in a moment his profits du
ring eight days. There still remained the
eighty thousand francs he had held in reserve
in his portfolio : he drew them out, and, with
out counting, placed upon the carpet a quan
tity of the bank-bills, of a thousand francs
each ; he lost again, and then, beside him
self, he placed upon the fatal carpet the re
mainder of his eighty thousand francs. An
instant after, he possessed nothing! His
eyes became dim. hisfeatures contracted with
despair: he arose, without knowing where
to go. All the gamblers and the hankers re
garded him with an air of insulting pity.
They murmured : “He played with great
sang froid ; he has lost with a heroic cour
age.”
But the unfortunate man saw nothing—
heard nothing. He thought but of death !
His finger-nails were buried in his flesh!
He left this den of crimes ; his dry and burn
ing eyes were not able to support the brillian
cy of the light which flashed from all sides
in the galleries of the palais royal. The flut
tering and changing crowd, their noise, their
movements, the cries of children, the loud
laughter which struck his ear, filled him with
affright. Every where he found the image
of life, and he was hastening to death : he
felt like a criminal who, in traversing a ball
room, perceived at the other end a scaffold,
upon which his head would soon fall. He
fled like one deranged, overthrew all whom
he found in his way, and stopped not until
his limbs would no longer support him.
CHAPTER V.
Julian was in the Champs Elysees. A
light breeze agitated the leaves, and the moon,
clear, brilliant in the midst of the blue hea
vens, attested the calm of nature. Julian re
clined against a tree, and reflected on the kind
of death he should choose. Suddenly, like
a man who has formed a determined resolu
tion, he walked quickly away.
“True,” said he, “ I will drown myself. —
This idea pleases me ; it makes me smile ; I
will soon return to nothing. Ah ! well: I
will suffer no more; I will pass from a state
of misery to one of perfect calm. Why, then,
should I fear ? But I do not fear: on the
contrary, I feel that Ido well. Chance de
creed that I should be born without fortune ;
I have wished to acquire one: far from suc
ceeding, I see myself reduced to the last ex
tremity'. Ah ! well, now, in place of living,
I will die ; voild tout —it does not require
such great courage to abridge one's sorrows.”
And he walked still faster. The unfortu
nate man sought in vain to deceive himself —
his feelings contradicted his words. He pass
ed the barrier, and arrived at the bridge of
Grenelle. He contemplated with a sardonic
laugh, the waters which would soon be his
sepulchre; already his foot was upon the
parapet, and the least movement would have
precipitated him into the river: but his strength
abandoned him; he fell backwards, and burst
into a passion of tears.
“ Emilie ! my father !” cried he, in a voice
stifled by sobs, “I shall, then, never see you
more. Poor wife! what will be your fate
| now ? Reduced to the greatest misery, with
! the child which you will soon bring into the
world, what will become of y T ou ? And your
mother ! with what curses will she load me !
| And you, my excellent father! was it. then,
necessary that my passion should devour the
little money which you had amassed to soften
the last days of a life, ever exposed to a
thousand perils, in the midst of the most
painful campaigns ? Oh, yes, lam a mon
ster ; can nature ever have produced one
more execrable? For you have all given
me y'our love —my happiness, my joy, con
stituted the joy of your existence; and I, in
famous criminal, have deprived y r ou of all —
given you up to misery, and to death ; for,
you will all die; you will not be able to sup
port so terrible a blow !”
And the unfortunate man wept more bitter
ly : “Emilie! my father!“ repeated he, “Oh!
how much I love you, 1 must die without
seeing you. without embracing you. Ah!
yet, before iny death, 1 would have bathed
your feet with tears of blood —you would
have seen my repentance. A thousand times
be accursed the day on which I saw the man
from whose mouth issued the venom that
poisoned my veins, and plunged me again in
to my abominable passion ! The miserable
wretch ! ‘ Six years,’ said he, ‘I was search
ing to discover this play; and it is infalli
ble!’ Oh! certes. it is infallible, but to con
duct to death I find myself placed in this
j cruel alternative —either to terminate my ex
istence, at an age when life has most charms,
or to drag out a few languishing days, full of
opprobrium and misery—to have incessantly
under my eyes, a woman full of virtue, fading
i in the midst of tears and sorrows —to hear
incessantly the maledictions of my father,
and the imprecations of a mother whom I
have ruined and unworthily deceived. Oh !
death is preferable : it alone will expiate my
offences.”
He arose, and extended his arms in the at
titude of one who is about plunging into the
I water; but suddenly he let them fall, and his
j eyes became fixed upon the shadow of a man
i standing several paces from him. He was
persuaded that this man was watching him,
and intended opposing his design.
“ Can I not then die, and abridge my an
guish ?” cried he —and was hastening away.
Suddenly, he heard the noice which a heavy
: body makes in striking the water. He re
turned and glanced at the place where he had
perceived the shadow; the man had disap
peared. He looked under the parapet —the
water w r as still seething where the body had
vanished.
“It is an unfortunate, man, who is going
to drown himself,” cried Julian, “and I must
save him.”
For the moment, desire for the preservation
j of his fellow-suicide entirely drove from his
| mind the thought of his own destruction ; he
i undressed himself quickly, and was soon
( swimming, plunging, and re-plunging, to
bring to life a man whom, without doubt, a
fatal passion had reduced to despair. But
his efforts were useless. Ten minutes passed
without his being able to find the body; he
swam ashore, and ran for assistance. In
about* a hundred paces he encountered some
fishermen, whom he begged to assist him in
saving the life of an unfortunate man who
was drowning. They directed their boats to
wards the place which he pointed out. —
While the fishermen were throwing their nets
and preparing to draw out the body, Julian
hastened to dress himself. He returned at
the moment when they were placing the body
upon the bank, lie approached it with af
* fright. The moon threw its pale rays on the
face, already blue, and fixed in the image of
death. The features, although disfigured,
were not unknown to him; the clothes brought
I more clearly to his mind the time when he
had met him. He approached to examine
when, suddenly, his hair stood on end-h
recoiled with horror—he recognized'the man
with the grey moustache—he recognized i n
this body, the gambler who thought he had
discovered the infallible secret of ruining the
houses of play. He would have fled, but an
irresistible force attached him to the bodv
the sight of which filled him with horror
The words of the old man suddenly occurred
to his mind, and as he glanced at the unfor
tunate man, his frozen tongue murmured—
“ Play is a volcano, upon whose brink it i s
madness to trifle.” Afterwards, he repeat
ed, in a strange voice, He had at least the
courage to die: 1 will have it also!” And
he hastened away. A bridge presented itself
to his view; he stopped, and regarded the
water for a few moments. “ No,” said he
“this death is too hideous; the agony will
be too long; I will blow out my brains.”
And he continued walking, without thought
and without purpose. He arrived in the
centre of Paris—the clock was striking twelve
—all the shops were closed—only a few pale
lights, reflected from the tops or the sides of
the houses, indicated the asylum of work
men, who, in order to give a morsel of bread
to their families, employed in labor the time
which should have been consecrated to sleep.
Julian traversed the streets with great
strides, like the criminal, who has always at
his side the shadow of the murdered. At
last, overcome with fatigue, he leaned against
a cost, his arms crossed, his head upon his
breast. He gave himself up to the most
painful emotions. In the delirium of his sor
row, he cried—
“ Emilie! my father! pardon me! I must
die. You will doubt the cause of my death;
but I will write to you—besides, it will be a
consolation to me.”
And the unfortunate man commenced wan
dering anew in the streets. He sought every
where for one of those houses which the po
lice authorizes to remain open all night, and
which serve as a shelter for thieves and vag
abonds who have no other home—where
they are nearly always certain of finding the
authors of the robberies which are constant
ly occurring. He stopped, at last, in a mar
ket-place, where a shop was open. It was
the Souricicre. He entered, and found him
self in the midst of a crowd of men clothed
in rags, squatted around the tables —some
drunk and some sleeping. He demanded, in
a sad voice, of the master of this miserable
lodge, a glass of water; for, notwithstanding
the coolness of the night, his tongue was
parched, his breath burning. He afterwards
asked for pen, ink and paper; he wrote with
a trembling hand, a few lines, which he bath
ed with tears-- placed the paper in his pocket,
and then left this den of crime and misery.
He arrived at the Pont des Arts—he travers
ed it, and stopped at the corner of the Rue de
l’Universite. It was then that a spectacle of
horror presented itself to him. He felt as if
annihilated. His eyes were fixed —his respi
ration like that of a man overcome by a suu
den fright. The unfortunate man's eyesweie
fixed upon his house. He saw the window
of his apartment open, and by the light with
in, perceived several persons going and coin
ing in the different rooms. Two of them ap
proached the window, glanced uneasily into
the street, and retired. Julian saw their
tears and heard their groans: it w r as Lmdi’
and his father. He fled anew. The da)
was breaking. He stopped before a house m
the Rue Saint Honore, knocked loudly at t ie
door, ran quickly up the steps, and when i c
arrived at the fourth floor, he rang violent)
a bell. A young man, half clothed, opene
the door. Astonished at so untimely a vim
he regarded Julian from head to foot.
“ What the d—l is the matter ?
you come so early, and make such a n
at my door ? What has exasperated .
to-night ?”