"Very good. Now go downstairs. At twelve o'clock, the doctor, Octave and you are to carry the fellow up here, to where we now stand, and wait till I call you." The wooden staircase had ten treads, which the prince climbed with definite caution. At the top was a landing with two doors. It took Sernine quite five minutes to open the one of the right without breaking the silence with the least sound of a creaking hinge. A light gleamed through the darkness of the room. Feeling his way, so as not to knock against one of the chairs, he made for that light. It came from the next room and filtered through a glazed door covered with a tattered hanging. The prince pulled the threadbare stuff aside. The panes were of ground glass, but scratched in parts, so that, by applying one eye, it was easy to see all that happened in the other room. 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! . . . Midnight . . . the twelve tragic strokes of midnight, to which so many a despairing man has hitched the last second of his existence! At the twelfth stroke, he stood up again and, bravely this time, without trembling, looked at the sinister rope. He even tried to give a smile, a poor smile, the pitiful grimace of the doomed man whom death has already seized for its own. Swiftly he climbed the chair and took the rope in one hand. For a moment, he stood there, motionless: not that he was hesitating or lacking in courage. But this was the supreme moment, the one minute of grace which a man allows himself before the fatal deed. He gazed at the squalid room to which his evil destiny had brought him, the hideous paper on the walls, the wretched bed.