“And what sort of a shot was he?” asked the Count.

“Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency:  if he saw a fly settle on the wall—­you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the truth—­ if he saw a fly, he would call out:  ‘Kouzka, my pistol!’ Kouzka would bring him a loaded pistol—­bang! and the fly would be crushed against the wall.”

“Wonderful!” said the Count.  “And what was his name?”

“Silvio, Your Excellency.”

“Silvio!” exclaimed the Count, starting up.  “Did you know Silvio?”

“How could I help knowing him, Your Excellency:  we were intimate friends; he was received in our regiment like a brother officer, but it is now five years since I had any tidings of him.  Then Your Excellency also knew him?”

“Oh, yes, I knew him very well.  Did he ever tell you of one very strange incident in his life?”

“Does Your Excellency refer to the slap in the face that he received from some blackguard at a ball?”

“Did he tell you the name of this blackguard?”

“No, Your Excellency, he never mentioned his name, . . .  Ah!  Your Excellency!” I continued, guessing the truth:  “pardon me . . .  I did not know . . . could it really have been you?”

“Yes, I myself,” replied the Count, with a look of extraordinary agitation; “and that bullet-pierced picture is a memento of our last meeting.”

“Ah, my dear,” said the Countess, “for Heaven’s sake, do not speak about that; it would be too terrible for me to listen to.”

“No,” replied the Count:  “I will relate everything.  He knows how I insulted his friend, and it is only right that he should know how Silvio revenged himself.”

The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I listened to the following story: 

“Five years ago I got married.  The first month—­the honeymoon—­I spent here, in this village.  To this house I am indebted for the happiest moments of my life, as well as for one of its most painful recollections.

“One evening we went out together for a ride on horseback.  My wife’s horse became restive; she grew frightened, gave the reins to me, and returned home on foot.  I rode on before.  In the courtyard I saw a travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat waiting for me a man, who would not give his name, but who merely said that he had business with me.  I entered the room and saw in the darkness a man, covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days’ growth.  He was standing there, near the fireplace.  I approached him, trying to remember his features.

“‘You do not recognize me, Count?’ said he, in a quivering voice.

“‘Silvio!’ I cried, and I confess that I felt as if my hair had suddenly stood on end.

“‘Exactly,’ continued he.  ’There is a shot due to me, and I have come to discharge my pistol.  Are you ready?’