Ought not the magistrate, like
the priest, to condemn himself to solitude and celibacy? Both know all,
they hear all, their costumes are nearly the same; but, while the priest
carries consolation in the folds of his black robe, the magistrate
conveys terror. One is mercy, the other chastisement. Such are the
images a thought of me would awaken; while the other,--the other--"
The wretched man continued his headlong course along the deserted quays.
He went with his head bare, his eyes haggard. To breathe more freely, he
had torn off his cravat and thrown it to the winds.
Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the path of a solitary wayfarer,
who would pause, touched with pity, and turn to watch the retreating
figure of the unfortunate wretch he thought deprived of reason. In a
by-road, near Grenelle, some police officers stopped him, and tried to
question him. He mechanically tendered them his card. They read it, and
permitted him to pass, convinced that he was drunk.
Anger,--a furious anger, began to replace his first feeling of
resignation. In his heart arose a hate, stronger and more violent than
even his love for Claire. That other, that preferred one, that haughty
viscount, who could not overcome those paltry obstacles, oh, that he had
him there, under his knee!
At that moment, this noble and proud man, this severe and grave
magistrate experienced an irresistible longing for vengeance.
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