“Ah! Bah! Really?” said the comte, with fierce irony.
“You do not believe me, father?”
“It was too soon or too late!” replied the old man, still unmoved, and in the same attitude.
Florestan, believing that he had moved his father by speaking to him of his project for committing suicide, thought it necessary to increase the effect by a coup de théâtre. He opened a drawer, took from it a small bottle of greenish glass, and said to the comte, depositing it on the table:
“An Italian quack sold me this poison.”
“And was this poison for yourself?” said the old man, still having his chin in the palm of his hand.
Florestan understood the force of the remark, his features expressed real indignation; for this time he spoke the truth. One day he took it into his head to kill himself,—an ephemer
