For several hours Saint-Clair was the happiest and the most ashamed of men. * * * * * "Well," said Roquantin to Colonel Beaujeu, when he met him in the evening at Tortoni's, "is this news true?" "Too true, my friend," answered the Colonel sadly. "Tell me, how did it come about?" "Oh! just as it should. Saint-Clair began by telling me he was in the wrong, but that he wished to draw Thémines' fire before begging his pardon. I could do no other than accede. Thémines wished to draw lots who should fire first. Saint-Clair insisted that Thémines should. Thémines fired; and I saw Saint-Clair turn round once and then fall stone dead. I have often remarked, in the case of soldiers when they have been shot, this strange turning round which precedes death." "How very extraordinary!" said Roquantin. "But Thémines, what did he do?" "Oh, what is usual on these occasions: he threw his pistol on the ground remorsefully, with such force that he broke the hammer. It was an English pistol of Manton's. I don't believe there is a gun-maker in Paris who could make such another." * * * * * The Countess shut herself up in her country house for three whole years without seeing anyone; winter and summer, there she lived, hardly going out of her room. She was waited upon by a mulatto woman who knew of the attachment between Saint-Clair and herself. She scarcely spoke a word to her day after day. At the end of three years her cousin Julie returned from a long voyage. She forced her way into the house and found poor Mathilde thin and pale, the very ghost of the beautiful and fascinating woman she had left behind. By degrees she persuaded her to come out of her solitude, and took her to Hyères. The Countess languished there for three or four months, and then died of consumption brought on by her grief--so said Dr. M----, who attended her. 1830. THE VENUS OF ILLE [Greek: Ileoos ein d'ego, esto o andrias kai eipios, outoos andreios oon. LOUKIANOU PHILOPSEUDES.] I descended the last hillside at Canigou, and, although the sun had already set, I could distinguish the houses of the little town of Ille, in the plain, towards which my steps were turned. "You know," I said to the Catalanian who had been my guide since the previous day--"no doubt you know where M. de Peyrehorade lives?" "Do I know it!" he exclaimed. "I know his house as well as I know my own; and if it wasn't so dark I would point it out to you. It is the prettiest in Ille. M. de Peyrehorade is a rich man; and he is marrying his son to a lady even richer than himself." "Is the marriage to take place soon?" I asked. "Very soon; probably the violinists are already ordered for the wedding. Perhaps it will be to-night, or to-morrow, or the day after, for all I know. It will be at Puygarrig; for the son is to marry Mademoiselle de Puygarrig. It will be a very grand affair!"