Ligny lit the lamp, a paraffin lamp, supported on a column, with a
cut-glass container inside which the wick was curled up like a
tape-worm. Félicie was very quick in dressing herself. They had to
descend one floor by a wooden staircase, dark and narrow. He went ahead,
carrying the lamp, and halted in the passage.

"You go out, darling, before I put the lamp out."

She opened the door, and immediately recoiled with a loud shriek. She
had seen Chevalier standing on the outer steps, with arms extended,
tall, black, erect as a crucifix. His hand grasped a revolver. The glint
of the weapon was not perceptible; nevertheless she saw it quite
distinctly.

"What's the matter?" demanded Ligny, who was turning down the wick of
the lamp.

"Listen, but don't come near me!" cried Chevalier in a loud voice. "I
forbid you to belong to one another. This is my dying wish. Good-bye,
Félicie."

And he slipped the barrel of the revolver into his mouth.

Crouching against the passage wall, she closed her eyes. When she
reopened them, Chevalier was lying on his side, across the doorway. His
eyes were wide open, and he seemed to be gazing at them with a smile. A
thread of blood was trickling from his mouth over the flagstones of the
porch. A convulsive tremor shook his arm. Then he ceased to move. As he
lay there, huddled up; he seemed smaller than usual.