“I—­I have had but little time to write it,” he faltered, “and I trust to you to supply the details.  Tell her how I made the quarrel, and how it ended.  No one suspects it to be other than a fracas over a game at ecarte.  No one supposes that I had any other motive, or any deeper vengeance—­not even De Caylus!  I have not compromised her by word or deed.  If I shoot him, I free her without a breath of scandal.  If I fall—­”

His voice failed, and we were both silent for some moments

We were now past the Barrier, and speeding on rapidly towards the open country.  High white houses with jalousies closed against the sun, and pretty maisonnettes in formal gardens, succeeded the streets and shops of suburban Paris.  Then came a long country road bordered by poplars—­by-and-by, glimpses of the Seine, and scattered farms and villages far away—­then Sevres and the leafy heights of Bellevue overhanging the river.

We crossed the bridge, and the driver, mindful of his fare, urged on his tired horse.  Some country folks met us presently, and a wagoner with a load of fresh hay.  They all smiled and gave us “good-day” as we passed—­they going to their work in the fields, and we to our work of bloodshed!

Shortly after this, the road began winding upwards, past the porcelain factories and through the village of Sevres; after which, having but a short distance of very steep road to climb, we desired the cabman to wait, and went up on foot.  Arrived at the top, where a peep of blue daylight came streaming down upon us through a green tunnel of acacias, we emerged all at once upon the terrace, and found ourselves first on the field.  Behind us rose a hillside of woods—­before us, glassy and glittering, as if traced upon the transparent air, lay the city of palaces.  Domes and spires, arches and columns of triumph, softened by distance, looked as if built of the sunshine.  Far away on one side stretched the Bois de Boulogne, undulating like a sea of tender green.  Still farther away on the other, lay Pere-la-Chaise—­a dark hill specked with white; cypresses and tombs.  At our feet, winding round a “lawny islet” and through a valley luxuriant in corn-fields and meadows, flowed the broad river, bluer than the sky.

“A fine sight, Damon!” said Dalrymple, leaning on the parapet, and coolly lighting a cigar.  “If my eyes are never to open on the day again, I am glad they should have rested for the last time on a scene of so much beauty!  Where is the painter who could paint it?  Not Claude himself, though he should come back to life on purpose, and mix his colors with liquid sunlight!”

“You are a queer fellow,” said I, “to talk of scenery and painters at such a moment!”

“Not at all.  Things are precious according to the tenure by which we hold them.  For my part, I do not know when I appreciated earth and sky so heartily as this morning. Tiens! here comes a carriage—­our men, no doubt.”