ich he had arrived in turn.
The two ideas which counselled him appeared to him equally fatal.
What a fatality!
What conjunction that that Champmathieu should have been taken for him; to be overwhelmed by precisely the means which Providence seemed to have employed, at first, to strengthen his position!
There was a moment when he reflected on the future.
Denounce himself, great God!
Deliver himself up!
With immense despair he faced all that he should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up once more.
He should have to bid farewell to that existence which was so good, so pure, so radiant, to the respect of all, to honor, to liberty.
He should never more stroll in the fields; he should never more hear the birds sing in the month of May; he should never more bestow alms on the little children; he should never more experience the sweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him; he should quit that house which he had built, that little chamber!
Everything seemed charming to him at that moment.
Never again should he read those books; never more should he write on that little table of white wood; his old portress, the only servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the morning.
Great God! instead of that, the convict gang, the iron necklet, the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed all those horrors which he knew so well!