The viscount saw that he was lost. He took a sudden and desperate resolution; no longer struggling with his father, he said, with firmness and resignation, "You are right, my father; give me this pistol. There is infamy enough attached to my name; the life that awaits me is frightful, it is not worth contending for. Give me the pistol. You shall see if I am a coward." And he extended his hand. "But, at least, a word, one single word of consolation, of pity, of farewell," said Florestan. His trembling lips and ashy paleness evinced the emotion of his trying situation. "If this should be my son!" thought the count, hesitating to give him the instrument, "if this is my son, I ought still less to hesitate at this sacrifice." The door of the cabinet was broken in with a tremendous crash. "Father--they come--oh! I feel now that death is a benefaction. Thanks, thanks! but at least your hand, and pardon me!" Notwithstanding his firmness, the count could not prevent a shudder, and said, in a broken voice, "I pardon you." "Father, the door opens; go to them; do not let them suspect you, at least. And then, if they enter here, they will prevent me from finishing. Adieu." The footsteps of several persons were heard in the adjoining apartment. Florestan pointed the pistol to his heart. It was discharged at the moment when the count, to escape this horrible scene had turned away, and rushed out of the room, the curtains closing after him. At the noise of the explosion, at the sight of the count, pale and trembling, the commissary stopped suddenly at the threshold of the door, making a sign for his officers not to advance. Informed by Badinot that the viscount was closeted with his father, the magistrate at once comprehended everything, and respected his great sorrow. "Dead," cried the count, concealing his face in his hand; "dead!" repeated he, overwhelmed. "It was right--better death than infamy, but it is frightful!" "My lord," said the magistrate, sadly after a few moments' silence, "spare yourself a sorrowful spectacle; leave this house. Now there remains for me a duty to perform still more painful than that which brought me here." "You are right, sir," said Saint Remy. "As to the victim of the robbery, you can tell him to call at M. Dupont's, banker." "Rue du Richelieu. He is well known," answered the magistrate. "At what amount are the stolen diamonds estimated?" "At about thirty thousand francs, my lord; the person who bought them, through whom the robbery was discovered, gave that amount for them to your son." "I can yet pay this, sir. Let the jeweler call the day after to-morrow on my banker; I will settle with him." The commissary bowed, and the count departed. As soon as he was gone, the magistrate, profoundly touched at this unexpected scene, turned toward the saloon, the curtains of which were down. He raised them with emotion.