"Bah," whispered the familiar imp of suicide at my
elbow. "You are just afraid to die." I took up the bottle
again. But the other taunter had an argument equally strong, and
once more I put the phial uncorked on the table.
Thus between two cowardices, one of which I must choose, stood I,
like the ass of Buridan. I lit another cigarette and excogitated
the problem. I smoked two cigarettes, walking up and down that
vast, chill apartment, while the air grew sickly sweet with the
smell of almonds, which intensified the physical repugnance the
first faint odour had occasioned. I began to shiver with cold.
The stove had burned out before I entered, and I had not
considered it worth while to have it filled for the few minutes
that would remain to me to live. I had not reckoned on the ass's
bundles of cowardice.
"I may as well be warm," thought I, "while I prove to my complete
satisfaction that it is more cowardly to live than to die. There
is no very great hurry."
I caught up a travelling-rug with which I had tried to soften the
asperities of an imitation Louis XV couch, and throwing it over
my shoulders, resumed my pilgrimage.
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