began to tickle a little, and before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the paper.
He looked hastily around, took out his pocket handkerchief, and carefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the old banker in the Rue Bergère.
What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at last led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he not hate his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse was ruined—he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him.
Then his thoughts turned to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be sure that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he must have come to a jutting headland in life, and be prepared to leap out of it rather than let disgrace reach him.
At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse should not have time to send a bullet through his head and hide his shame in the mixture of compassion and mysterious horror which follows the suicide. Thus Charles would lose his revenge, and it would be all to no purpose that he had gone and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evil through it. Since he had for ever lost his friend, he would at least expose his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicable being was this charming Alphonse.
He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the café in which he would find
