a wardrobe, a table. Some chairs which he counted and which were four in number. He almost did not notice a sofa. But no article of furniture came to his aid.

It took quite ten minutes before the idea of fatality could make way for that of violent despair. Good God! why was this happening to him? Why at this moment was he in Zürich? Without—for that purpose—interrupting his journey in Switzerland, he could have been in Basle, in Geneva, in Schaffhausen, towns where no one runs any danger. Life is stupid. Why was he in this room? He could have been in the one next door. Above all, before going to bed, why hadn’t he thought of glancing underneath it?

‘Oh! I’ve made a fine mess of it!’ he said to himself.

He struggled with himself as well as he could. First of all, to defend himself, all he could find was the sad thoughts that come to the human creature about to be killed in error.

‘But I’ve done nothing’, he wanted to shout to himself, for the idea of death in us is invincibly associated with that of punishment.

No, he had done nothing. He was innocent. He felt the whole extent, the profundity of his innocence. And he was a very good man. He was so good that he was not even angry with the bandit who, hidden under his bed, wished him so much evil. Yes, he might have been angry with him. But, of course, the man did not know him. He wanted to shout to him:

‘It’s me, Henri Létang, whom you are going to kill! You’re making a mistake, one doesn’t kill people like me.’

He felt capable of becoming his friend. It is for want of money that people adopt the profession of crime. Henri Létang had money. He thought of saying to this man:

‘Listen! I know that you are under my bed. Don’t do me any harm and I will give you everything I possess. I’ll even give you more. You don’t know who I am; you do not even know what I’m capable of. If everything I have on me is not enough for you, look here; I make you a promise: I’ll go back to Paris and once there, I’ll send you any sum you like to fix.’

Poor comrade lying under the bed! Henri Létang no longer dared to be angry with him for fear of arousing his wrath. He was even grateful to him for not making any noise and for having attracted his attention only by that silent gesture of the hand on the match.

But soon something happened which may be called an event. Henri Létang was at this stage in his reflections when brusquely at the moment when he least expected it, a sudden, irresistible warm kindly pity invaded him.

It took him by the throat, it entered his mouth, he felt it flowing, he was filled with it. He did not know how it had come. He nearly shouted.

‘My God! I am saved!’

He took plenty of time so as to be sure of success, he regulated every detail; he fixed the exact spot where he would place his feet. He even said to himself that he would put his left hand on the copper knob of his bed. Everything was ready, there was nothing to fear. Now—

Henri Létang sat up, and first of all imitated those persons who are accustomed to talk aloud when they are alone. He spoke to himself, of course, but above all in such a way as to be heard by all the men who might be hidden in his room. He said:

‘What a fool I am, I do believe I’ve gone and left my key in the door.’