There as I stood near the scaffold, my mind was again full of bitter thoughts, of useless self-reproach, of hopeless sorrow. I looked toward the river. It moved so calmly. It was so still and deep. Under its placid surface perhaps there would be peace. Better death than this torment in my soul. I made a step toward it, but whether it was cowardice or not, I cannot say; but I stayed myself, and then that hope which never dies flickered once more in my heart. Perhaps I could retrieve myself. If not, surely there was another death yet left to me to die. Not this! I moved back again near the scaffold, and, seating myself on the pile of wood, began to think; but my brain seemed stricken with palsy. All that flamed before my mind, in endless scrolls of fire, was the thought of my infamy. I rose again, but a mist seemed to gather before me. There was a drumming in my ears, and, tottering forward, I clung to the scaffolding to save myself from falling. With my hands clenched to the hoardings, I stood shaking in every limb, and then I suppose I must have fainted. I seemed to be dropping, dropping through endless space, amid the turmoil and din of chaos, amid the unearthly mowings of devils rejoicing at my fall. Then all became blank oblivion. Slowly, slowly I came to myself, and, after a minute or so, gathered strength to stand without the support of the hoardings. I wiped my forehead, which, cold as it was, was damp with sweat, and once more looked around. It was evident that the excess of my mental torture had broken my strength, and strength I must have to go. I determined to retrace my steps, obtain some food, and then risk swimming the Loire, if necessary, to get out of Orleans. I found myself, soon after, in the Rue des Tanneurs, and finally reached a little square just beyond St. Pierre le Puellier, in the corner of which stood a cabaret of some pretensions. Obscure as the square was, cold as the night was, there were numbers of people about, and, as I peered into the cabaret, I saw that it was all but full. Every gossip, every babbler, every idler who had a brown piece in his pocket, was spending it in Vouvray, in Rochecorbon, or in Cognac, while he talked over the news. I entered quietly, and, seeing in a corner a small vacant table, settled myself there, and ordered some food and a bottle of wine. The food I could barely touch, although I forced myself to eat a little; but the wine warmed me, and I began to recover my faculties, and also gained some of that courage that liquor gives to the weakest.