man, they could discover not the least sign of feeling on his cool but
restless face.

"Even! red wins," said the croupier officially. A dumb sort of rattle
came from the Italian's throat when he saw the folded notes that the

banker showered upon him, one after another. The young man only
understood his calamity when the croupiers's rake was extended to

sweep away his last napoleon. The ivory touched the coin with a little
click, as it swept it with the speed of an arrow into the heap of gold

before the bank. The stranger turned pale at the lips, and softly shut
his eyes, but he unclosed them again at once, and the red color

returned as he affected the airs of an Englishman, to whom life can
offer no new sensation, and disappeared without the glance full of

entreaty for compassion that a desperate gamester will often give the
bystanders. How much can happen in a second's space; how many things

depend on a throw of the die!
"That was his last cartridge, of course," said the croupier, smiling

after a moment's silence, during which he picked up the coin between
his finger and thumb and held it up.

"He is a cracked brain that will go and drown himself," said a
frequenter of the place. He looked round about at the other players,

who all knew each other.
"Bah!" said a waiter, as he took a pinch of snuff.

"If we had but followed HIS example," said an old gamester to the
others, as he pointed out the Italian.

Everybody looked at the lucky player, whose hands shook as he counted
his bank-notes.

"A voice seemed to whisper to me," he said. "The luck is sure to go
against that young man's despair."

"He is a new hand," said the banker, "or he would have divided his
money into three parts to give himself more chance."

The young man went out without asking for his hat; but the old
watch-dog, who had noted its shabby condition, returned it to him

without a word. The gamblermechanically gave up the tally, and went
downstairs whistling Di tanti Palpiti so feebly, that he himself

scarcely heard the delicious notes.
He found himself immediately under the arcades of the Palais-Royal,

reached the Rue Saint Honore, took the direction of the Tuileries, and
crossed the gardens with an undecided step. He walked as if he were in

some desert, elbowed by men whom he did not see, hearing through all
the voices of the crowd one voice alone--the voice of Death. He was

lost in the thoughts that benumbed him at last, like the criminals who
used to be taken in carts from the Palais de Justice to the Place de

Greve, where the scaffold awaited them reddened with all the blood
spilt here since 1793.

There is something great and terrible about suicide. Most people's
downfalls are not dangerous; they are like children who have not far

to fall, and cannot injure themselves; but when a great nature is
dashed down, he is bound to fall from a height. He must have been

raised almost to the skies; he has caught glimpses of some heaven
beyond his reach. Vehement must the storms be which compel a soul to

seek for peace from the trigger of a pistol.
How much young power starves and pines away in a garret for want of a

friend, for lack of a woman's consolation, in the midst of millions of
fellow-creatures, in the presence of a listless crowd that is burdened

by its wealth! When one remembers all this, suicide looms large.
Between a self-sought death and the abundant hopes whose voices call a

young man to Paris, God only knows what may intervene; what contending
ideas have striven within the soul; what poems have been set aside;

what moans and what despair have been repressed; what abortive
masterpieces and vain endeavors! Every suicide is an awful poem of

sorrow. Where will you find a work of genius floating above the seas
of literature that can compare with this paragraph:

"Yesterday, at four o'clock, a young woman threw herself into the
Seine from the Pont des Arts."

Dramas and romances pale before this concise Parisian phrase; so must
even that old frontispiece, The Lamentations of the glorious king of

Kaernavan, put in prison by his children, the sole remaining fragment
of a lost work that drew tears from Sterne at the bare perusal--the

same Sterne who deserted his own wife and family.
The stranger was beset with such thoughts as these, which passed in

fragments through his mind, like tattered flags fluttering above the
combat. If he set aside for a moment the burdens of consciousness and

of memory, to watch the flower heads gently swayed by the breeze among
the green thickets, a revulsion came over him, life struggled against

the oppressive thought of suicide, and his eyes rose to the sky: gray
clouds, melancholy gusts of the wind, the stormy atmosphere, all

decreed that he should die.
He bent his way toward the Pont Royal, musing over the last fancies of

others who had gone before him. He smiled to himself as he remembered
that Lord Castlereagh had satisfied the humblest of our needs before

he cut his throat, and that the academician Auger had sought for his
snuff-box as he went to his death. He analyzed these extravagances,

and even examined himself; for as he stood aside against the parapet
to allow a porter to pass, his coat had been whitened somewhat by the

contact, and he carefully brushed the dust from his sleeve, to his own
surprise. He reached the middle of the arch, and looked forebodingly

at the water.
"Wretched weather for drowning yourself," said a ragged old woman, who

grinned at him; "isn't the Seine cold and dirty?"
His answer was a ready smile, which showed the frenzied nature of his

courage; then he shivered all at once as he saw at a distance, by the
door of the Tuileries, a shed with an inscription above it in letters

twelve inches high: THE ROYAL HUMANE SOCIETY'S APPARATUS.
A vision of M. Dacheux rose before him, equipped by his philanthropy,

calling out and setting in motion the too efficacious oars which break
the heads of drowning men, if unluckily they should rise to the

surface; he saw a curious crowd collecting, running for a doctor,
preparing fumigations, he read the maundering paragraph in the papers,

put between notes on a festivity and on the smiles of a ballet-dancer;
he heard the francs counted down by the prefect of police to the

watermen. As a corpse, he was worth fifteen francs; but now while he
lived he was only a man of talent without patrons, without friends,

without a mattress to lie on, or any one to speak a word for him--a
perfect social cipher, useless to a State which gave itself no trouble

about him.
A death in broad daylight seemed degrading to him; he made up his mind

to die at night so as to bequeath an unrecognizable corpse to a world
which had disregarded the greatness of life. He began his wanderings

again, turning towards the Quai Voltaire, imitating the lagging gait
of an idler seeking to kill time. As he came down the steps at the end

of the bridge, his notice was attracted by the second-hand books
displayed on the parapet, and he was on the point of bargaining for

some. He smiled, thrust his hands philosophically into his pockets,
and fell to strolling on again with a proud disdain in his manner,

when he heard to his surprise some coin rattling fantastically in his
pocket.

A smile of hope lit his face, and slid from his lips over his
features, over his brow, and brought a joyful light to his eyes and

his dark cheeks. It was a spark of happiness like one of the red dots
that flit over the remains of a burnt scrap of paper; but as it is

with the black ashes, so it was with his face, it became dull again
when the stranger quickly drew out his hand and perceived three

pennies. "Ah, kind gentleman! carita, carita; for the love of St.
Catherine! only a halfpenny to buy some bread!"

A little chimney sweeper, with puffed cheeks, all black with soot, and
clad in tatters, held out his hand to beg for the man's last pence.

Two paces from the little Savoyard stood an old pauvre honteux, sickly
and feeble, in wretched garments of ragged druggeting, who asked in a

thick, muffled voice:
"Anything you like to give, monsieur; I will pray to God for

you . . ."
But the young man turned his eyes on him, and the old beggar stopped

without another word, discerning in that mournful face an abandonment
of wretchedness more bitter than his own.

"La carita! la carita!"
The stranger threw the coins to the old man and the child, left the

footway, and turned towards the houses; the harrowing sight of the
Seine fretted him beyond endurance.