“Did you love the girl?” asked Eusebe, with an air of surprise. “She was all that remained to console me. There is no denying that I was attached to her. But, tell me, how do you come on?” “I fight to-morrow.” “Ah!” Eusebe then related to his friend all that had occurred to him since they had seen one another. At the conclusion, he said,-- “Well, what do you think of the affair?” “I think you have done right to come in search of me, and that you acted bravely in giving the lie to this gentleman of the card. But it is quite possible, nevertheless, that he spoke the truth.” Eusebe became pale, and Paul continued:-- “You see, women are very strange creatures. Why may not Adéonne have deceived you for the sake of a count, since Virginie has deceived me for the sake of a waiter?” “Adéonne has too much heart for that.” “Mon Dieu! It is always the woman who has too much heart who experiences the need of sharing it. Do you know how to shoot?” “No.” “You are not afraid, I hope?” “Yes,” replied Eusebe, “I am afraid,--very much afraid.” “It is not possible!” exclaimed Buck, dropping his pipe: “you mistake your own nature.” “No: I know what I say. I have no fear of being wounded, or of being forced to suffer pain: I have none of that ignoble shrinking from danger which characterizes cowards. Yet I fear to die while still so young: I fear to die and leave Adéonne, whom I love. I fear to die without having seen my father and the dear old trees of the Capelette once more. For the last two hours, the thought that I may be slain to-morrow has given me a fit of home-sickness. I no longer seek to read the future. My eyes are turned to the past, where it seems to me I have never known any thing but happiness. The most humble creatures for whom I have cherished affection appear to have taken a firmer hold upon my heart. There remain to me, perhaps, not more than fifteen hours of life. I would give seven of them to once more behold big Katy, a peasant who nursed me when an infant, and to embrace my poor dog Medor, who is blind.” “Bah! All will go well,” said Paul. “Courage! You can count upon my services. To-morrow, at the hour indicated, I will visit your friend Clamens.” Eusebe shook the hand of the painter, and departed. Paul, as soon as he found himself alone, thus soliloquized:-- “Poor fellow! He is right. It is hard to die at his age, when one has so many reasons to regret life. But who says he will die? It is hardly probable. If he should escape with a wound, he can go see his father and the dear old trees again, and continue to love his mistress. My father, now, is dead. When he was alive, we never had any other trees than those of the road. My mistress has fled. I do not possess even an old blind dog; and--I have just broken my pipe.” And then, as the painter’s eyes fell upon the piece of gold left by Eusebe, he exclaimed,--