Preferring to retire late, I claimed the first watch and seated myself silently in the library, close to the communicating door, with a book in front of me to serve as a pretext in case I should be surprised. Outside the closed windows the silence of the country soon grew so marked that I could hear not only my own breathing, but the least movement on the other side of the thin partition which separated us, even the light touch of a sleeve against the arm of a chair. Without doubt he was reading at his table. From time to time I fancied I could catch the rustle of a page as he turned it over. Suddenly he pushed back his chair and began to pace the room with his irregular step. None of his actions escaped me--my ears took the place of my eyes. I was certain that he would open the door, and how was I then to explain my presence there? He stopped. I calculated that he must be in front of the window. Then he appeared to turn the bolt and throw open the glass wings. Only empty space was now in front of him. Anxiety paralysed me. I did not dare interfere; what if my interference should determine him! The few seconds of suspense were filled with agony. At last he left the threshold of the window, but without shutting it, and seated himself again at the table. I could not endure the situation any longer. I preferred to talk to him, to attempt to distract him, anything rather than abandon my reason to his unseen madness. With a great effort, for my legs seemed too weak for their task, I rose and went to the door. I knocked; he did not reply. A second time there was no response. Then I walked in. At first I saw nothing but his back. A portfolio of documents lay open on the table, but he was not reading. Some white paper, covered with geometrical figures, was littered about, but he was not writing. He sat with his head erect, apparently absorbed in his thoughts. Then I perceived in a mirror the reflection of his face. Occasionally, in order to indicate that a sick man is doomed, we use the expression: “he has death in his face.” But a young man in perfect health--how can he bear this stamp? Nevertheless I perceived it clearly. There it was, unmistakable, obvious, threatening, and time stopped for me. I remained motionless behind him as though hypnotised. To shake off the evil influence, I lowered my glance, and an object on the table, which I had not at first noticed, attracted my attention. I was not mistaken. He had a revolver within reach of his hand--and it seemed to me that his arm was reaching toward it. It was no time to hesitate longer. I stepped abruptly and silently forward, and seized the weapon. Raymond Cernay shook his head like one who has received a blow, and remarked with astonishing indifference, as if he had just returned to life: “What are you afraid of? That revolver is not loaded.” Nevertheless I kept it in my hand, for I doubted him.