I turned toward him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest would allow us. All at once, our horses stopped short, snorting and sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off and led his horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground. “That must be my wretch of just now,” said my companion and, bending down over the man, he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor had not seen his man, so he could not have recognized him. He lighted a match, and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted and was trying to raise the unfortunate man’s head, but I withdrew my hand covered with blood. He had opened his eyes and fixed them on O’Connor. [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN RIDING HABIT.] “Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who shot me! I missed you, but—” He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O’Connor, on his side, had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely recognize my friend, for this nice-looking, fair-haired man, so correct, rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute. Leaning forward toward the unfortunate man, his under jaw advancing, he was muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter, before flinging it away in disgust. “O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said. He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way and seemed to become aware of the situation again. “Good!;” he said, helping me to mount once more. “When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will come back with some men to pick up this wretch.” Half an hour later we were back home, without having exchanged another word during our ride. I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never see him again without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the brutelike mask, under which I had seen him for a second, would fix itself again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March, 1905, General O’Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one evening in my dressing-room at the theater. He told me about his difficulties with some of the great Arab chiefs. “I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have to have a brush together.” The captain’s mask, for me, then fixed itself on the general’s face. I never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards. We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! what women in mourning! what ruins!