I hate him.

I am his judge; and it is no less true, that at one time I longed to assassinate him.

I faced him with a revolver in my hand: why did I not present it and fire?
Do I know why?
What power held my finger, when an almost insensible pressure would have sufficed to kill him?
I cannot say.

Why is not he the judge, I the assassin?
If the intention was as punishable as the deed, I ought to be guillotined.

And it is under such conditions that I dare examine him!" Passing before the door he heard the heavy footsteps of the gendarmes in the passage.
"It is he," he said aloud and then hastily seated himself at his table, bending over his portfolios, as though striving to hide himself.