When they were all gone, what should I do?

I persevered in my quest for employment. It was all in vain. Many people
added insults to their harsh refusal of my application, accusing me of
being an impostor; for who ever heard, said they, of a young girl like
me being acquainted with these abstruse studies! Day after day, week
after week, I plodded on through the mire and dirt, for it was winter,
the weeping winter of Paris, and the obscure and narrow streets
(traversed by a filthy kennel in the center, and destitute of sidewalks)
through which my researches led me, were in a dreadful condition. And
evermore the question recurred to me, What shall I do?

As day after day passed, and still no opening appeared, I thought of the
river, rolling darkly through the heart of the city, in whose silent
tide so many a poor unfortunate has sought a refuge from present misery.
One day, as in the course of my peregrinations I passed the Morgue, I
saw the dead body of a young woman which had been taken that morning
from the river, and laid out for recognition by her friends. As I looked
on her livid, bloated face, her drenched and tattered garments, her long
dark hair hanging in dank matted masses, and streaming over the edge of
the table on which she lay, my heart was moved with pity. Yet I half
envied her position, and might have followed her example, but for my
belief in a future state. Her body was free from every mortal ill, but
her poor soul, where was it?

But besides, looking at it from a merely human point of view, there is
in my nature a certain stern and rugged resolution, a sort of
'never-give-up' feeling, which induces me to hope and struggle on, and
leads me to think, with the great Napoleon, that suicide is the act of a
coward, since it is an attempt to fly from those evils which God has