It was not until the afternoon that a young friend of his gave him the
name of Albert de Commarin's club, and offered to conduct him thither,
as he too was a member.
M. Daburon accepted warmly, and accompanied his friend. While passing
along, he grasped with frenzy the handle of the revolver which he kept
concealed, thinking only of the murder he was determined to commit, and
the means of insuring the accuracy of his aim.
"This will make a terrible scandal," thought he, "above all if I do not
succeed in blowing my own brains out. I shall be arrested, thrown
into prison, and placed upon my trial at the assizes. My name will be
dishonoured! Bah! what does that signify? Claire does not love me, so
what care I for all the rest? My father no doubt will die of grief, but
I must have my revenge!"
On arriving at the club, his friend pointed out a very dark young man,
with a haughty air, or what appeared so to him, who, seated at a table,
was reading a review. It was the viscount.
M. Daburon walked up to him without drawing his revolver. But when
within two paces, his heart failed him; he turned suddenly and fled,
leaving his friend astonished at a scene, to him, utterly inexplicable.
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