When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold, the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that there would not be enough. But four remained over. Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said: “Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much when he was alive.” A big, jovial peasant declared: “He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn.” This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up. It was their turn now to eat dumplings. Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellar continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were beginning to shout as they do at feasts. Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, held there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared at the window and cried in a shrill voice: “He's dead! he's dead!” Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other, looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings. Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved. They kept repeating: “I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, it would have saved us all this trouble.” Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all, and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion. The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the chance to see him and of getting something to eat. And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, her face distorted with grief: “We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have made up his mind last night?” The husband, more resigned, answered: “Well, we'll not have to do this every day.” THE GAMEKEEPER It was after dinner, and we were talking about adventures and accidents which happened while out shooting. An old friend, known to all of us, M. Boniface, a great sportsman and a connoisseur of wine, a man of wonderful physique, witty and gay, and endowed with an ironical and resigned philosophy, which manifested itself in caustic humor, and never in melancholy, suddenly exclaimed: “I know a story, or rather a tragedy, which is somewhat peculiar. It is not at all like those which one hears of usually, and I have never told it, thinking that it would interest no one. “It is not at all sympathetic. I mean by that, that it does not arouse the kind of interest which pleases or which moves one agreeably. “Here is the story: