"You do not seem to be very fond of society. Baron Langen," he said, smiling at the hurry of the young man. "That society--no! I was brought up in almost absolute solitude. My father, who is not very wealthy, sacrified society to the interest of his children. Then I was sent to school. I should have liked to go to a university, but my father needed me on the farm, especially as he grew older and could not do as much as formerly himself. Since then my good father has left us, and I have hardly ever been away from the _paterna rura_. Are you anything of a sportsman?" "No; I have never yet had an opportunity to cultivate the Nimrod talent, which no doubt is quietly slumbering somewhere in my nature." "Oh! that is a pity. But that will come. We have excellent sport: wild-fowl and hares. You ought at first to practise a little with the pistol. One learns to take aim and to have a steady hand." "Well, pistol-shooting I have practised perhaps too much in my life," replied Oswald. "My father, a teacher of languages and a very peaceful man, had a real passion for pistol-shooting; it was his only amusement. He shot as I have never seen anybody shoot, with marvellous skill. I have never found out what could have given him such a passion for it. Once I thought I would ask him about it. I shall never forget the tone in which he answered; 'There was a time when I hoped I should be able to kill a man who had mortally offended _him_. When I was perfectly sure of my aim--the man died. Since then I fancy I am firing at him; every ace of spades which my ball hits is his false, cruel heart.' I begged him to give me the name of the man. 'That I cannot do,' he answered; 'but if you choose to have your share in my feelings--take it for granted that the ace of spades is the heart of some nobleman or other.'" "_Mon Dieu!_" said Langen; "and have you really inherited this fanatic hatred against my caste from your father?" "Only partially," said Oswald, "as I have only inherited a part of his skill in pistol-shooting.--Shall we go for a moment to the stand? I judge from the sound we must be quite near." "Bravo, bravo!" cried a number of voices from there; "Cloten, I bet on you." "I bet on Breesen," said another voice. They found at the stand half a dozen gentlemen perhaps, all greatly excited, with the exception of Baron Oldenburg, who, leaning against his tree, and his hands in his pockets, looked at the marksmen and hummed stanzas from the Marseillaise through his teeth. "Bravo, Cloten. Again the bull's-eye--the fellow shoots like the devil!" cried several voices. "Has anybody else a desire to bet?" said Cloten, looking all around with a wonderfully self-complacent air. "I should like to bet, if you please," said Oswald. "You?" said the dandy, with a look of speechless surprise. "I bet a sovereign on the gentleman," said Oldenburg, grinning. "Who will take it?" "Done! Done!" cried several voices.