He still looked at the weapon, and raising the hammer, saw the glitter of the priming below it.  The pistol had been left loaded by some chance, some oversight.  And the discovery rejoiced him, he knew not why.

If he did not maintain, in presence of his opponent, the steadfast bearing which was so necessary to his honor, he would be ruined forever.  He would be branded, stigmatized as a coward, hounded out of society!  And he felt, he knew, that he could not maintain that calm, unmoved demeanor.  And yet he was brave, since the thought that followed was not even rounded to a finish in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he suddenly plunged the barrel of the pistol as far back as his throat, and pressed the trigger.

When the valet, alarmed at the report, rushed into the room he found his master lying dead upon his back.  A spurt of blood had splashed the white paper on the table, and had made a great crimson stain beneath the words: 

“This is my last will and testament.”

OLD MONGILET

In the office old Mongilet was considered a type.  He was a good old employee, who had never been outside Paris but once in his life.

It was the end of July, and each of us, every Sunday, went to roll in the grass, or soak in the water in the country near by.  Asnieres, Argenteuil, Chatou, Borgival, Maisons, Poissy, had their habitues and their ardent admirers.  We argued about the merits and advantages of all these places, celebrated and delightful to all Parsian employees.

Daddy Mongilet declared: 

“You are like a lot of sheep!  It must be pretty, this country you talk of!”

“Well, how about you, Mongilet?  Don’t you ever go on an excursion?”

“Yes, indeed.  I go in an omnibus.  When I have had a good luncheon, without any hurry, at the wine shop down there, I look up my route with a plan of Paris, and the time table of the lines and connections.  And then I climb up on the box, open my umbrella and off we go.  Oh, I see lots of things, more than you, I bet!  I change my surroundings.  It is as though I were taking a journey across the world, the people are so different in one street and another.  I know my Paris better than anyone.  And then, there is nothing more amusing than the entresols.  You would not believe what one sees in there at a glance.  One guesses at domestic scenes simply at sight of the face of a man who is roaring; one is amused on passing by a barber’s shop, to see the barber leave his customer whose face is covered with lather to look out in the street.  One exchanges heartfelt glances with the milliners just for fun, as one has no time to alight.  Ah, how many things one sees!

“It is the drama, the real, the true, the drama of nature, seen as the horses trot by.  Heavens!  I would not give my excursions in the omnibus for all your stupid excursions in the woods.”