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Page 19
"Oh!" I observed, "in that case, I don't mind laying a wager that Your
Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces; the pistol demands
practice every day. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was
reckoned one of the best shots. It once happened that I did not touch a
pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and would you
believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot again, I
missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces. Our captain, a
witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and he said to me:
'It is evident, my friend, that your hand will not lift itself against
the bottle.' No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect to practise, or
your hand will soon lose its cunning. The best shot that I ever met used
to shoot at least three times every day before dinner. It was as much
his custom to do this as it was to drink his daily glass of brandy."
The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.
"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.
"Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency: if he saw a fly settle
on the wall--you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the truth--
if he saw a fly, he would call out: 'Kouzka, my pistol!' Kouzka would
bring him a loaded pistol--bang! and the fly would be crushed against
the wall."
"Wonderful!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"
"Silvio, Your Excellency."
"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting up. "Did you know Silvio?"
"How could I help knowing him, Your Excellency: we were intimate
friends; he was received in our regiment like a brother officer, but it
is now five years since I had any tidings of him. Then Your Excellency
also knew him?"
"Oh, yes, I knew him very well. Did he ever tell you of one very strange
incident in his life?"
"Does Your Excellency refer to the slap in the face that he received
from some blackguard at a ball?"
"Did he tell you the name of this blackguard?"
"No, Your Excellency, he never mentioned his name, . . . Ah! Your
Excellency!" I continued, guessing the truth: "pardon me . . . I did not
know . . . could it really have been you?"
"Yes, I myself," replied the Count, with a look of extraordinary
agitation; "and that bullet-pierced picture is a memento of our last
meeting."
"Ah, my dear," said the Countess, "for Heaven's sake, do not speak about
that; it would be too terrible for me to listen to."
"No," replied the Count: "I will relate everything. He knows how I
insulted his friend, and it is only right that he should know how Silvio
revenged himself."
The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I
listened to the following story:
"Five years ago I got married. The first month--the honeymoon--I spent
here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the happiest
moments of my life, as well as for one of its most painful recollections.
"One evening we went out together for a ride on horseback. My wife's
horse became restive; she grew frightened, gave the reins to me, and
returned home on foot. I rode on before. In the courtyard I saw a
travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat waiting for me
a man, who would not give his name, but who merely said that he had
business with me. I entered the room and saw in the darkness a man,
covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days' growth. He was
standing there, near the fireplace. I approached him, trying to remember
his features.
"'You do not recognize me, Count?' said he, in a quivering voice.
"'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess that I felt as if my hair had suddenly
stood on end.
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