"Already a thief! I was not then deceived," said the comte, in a low voice. "I came to kill you,--I have delayed too long." "Kill me?" "There is already too much dishonour on my name,--it must end. I have here two pistols; you must blow out your brains, or I will blow them out, and I will say that you killed yourself in despair in order to escape from shame." And, with a fearful _sang-froid_, the comte drew a pistol from his pocket, and, with the hand that was free, presented it to his son, saying: "Now an end to this, if, indeed, you are not a coward!" After repeated and ineffectual attempts to free himself from the comte's hand, his son fell back aghast and livid with fear. He saw by the fearful look, the inexorable demeanour of his father, that he had no pity to expect from him. "My father!" he exclaimed. "You must die!" "I repent!" "It is too late. Hark! They are forcing in the door!" "I will expiate my faults!" "They are entering! Must I then kill you with my own hand?" "Pardon!" "The door gives way! You will then have it so!" And the comte placed the muzzle of the weapon against Florestan's breast. The noise without announced that the door of the cabinet could not long resist. The vicomte saw he was lost. A sudden and desperate resolution lighted up his countenance. He no longer struggled with his father, and he said to him, with equal firmness and resignation: "You are right, my father! Give me the pistol! There is infamy enough on my name! The life in store for me is frightful, and is not worth the trouble of a struggle. Give me the pistol! You shall see if I am a coward!" and he put forth his hand to take the pistol. "But, at least, one word,--one single word of consolation,--pity,--farewell!" said Florestan; and his trembling lips, his paleness, his agitated features, all betokened the terrible emotion of this frightful moment. "But what if he were, indeed, my son!" thought the comte, with terror, and hesitating to hand him the deadly instrument. "If he were my son I ought to hesitate before such a sacrifice." A loud cracking of the cabinet door announced that it was being forced. "My father, they are coming! Oh, now I feel that death is indeed a benefit. Yes, now I thank you! But, at least, your hand,--and forgive me!" In spite of his sternness, the comte could not repress a shudder, as he said, in a voice of emotion: "I forgive you." "My father, the door opens; go to them, that, at least, they may not even suspect you. Besides, if they enter here, they will prevent me from completing,--adieu!" The steps of several persons were heard in the next room. Florestan placed the muzzle of the pistol to his heart. It went off at the instant when the comte, to avoid the horrid sight, turned away his head, and rushed out of the salon, whose curtains closed upon him.