"I can scarcely, even for myself, abandon so much splendour without regret; and thinking of Claire makes it hard indeed.

Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realise without wealth ?" Midnight sounded from the neighbouring church of St.Clotilde, and as the night was chilly, he closed the window, and sat down near the fire, which he stirred.

In the hope of obtaining a respite from his thoughts, he took up the evening paper, in which was an account of the assassination at La Jonchere; but he found it impossible to read: the lines danced before his eyes.

Then he thought of writing to Claire.

He sat down at his desk, and wrote, "My dearly loved Claire," but he could go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish him with a single sentence.
At last, at break of day, he threw himself on to a sofa, and fell into a heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.
At half-past nine in the morning, he was suddenly awakened, by the noise of the door being hastily opened.