time, I awaited the appearance of the Count with some little trepidation, as a suppliant from the provinces awaits the arrival of the minister.  The door opened, and a handsome-looking man, of about thirty-two years of age, entered the room.  The Count approached me with a frank and friendly air; I endeavored to be self-possessed and began to introduce myself, but he anticipated me.  We sat down.  His conversation, which was easy and agreeable, soon dissipated my awkward bashfulness; and I was already beginning to recover my usual composure, when the Countess suddenly entered, and I became more confused than ever.  She was indeed beautiful.  The Count presented me.  I wished to appear at ease, but the more I tried to assume an air of unconstraint, the more awkward I felt.  They, in order to give me time to recover myself and to become accustomed to my new acquaintances, began to talk to each other, treating me as a good neighbor, and without ceremony.  Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and pictures.  I am no judge of pictures, but one of them attracted my attention.  It represented some view in Switzerland, but it was not the painting that struck me, but the circumstance that the canvas was shot through by two bullets, one planted just above the other.

“A good shot that!” said I, turning to the Count.

“Yes,” replied he, “a very remarkable shot. . . .  Do you shoot well?” he continued.

“Tolerably,” replied I, rejoicing that the conversation had turned at last upon a subject that was familiar to me.  “At thirty paces I can manage to hit a card without fail,—­I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am used to.”

“Really?” said the Countess, with a look of the greatest interest.  “And you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?”

“Some day,” replied the Count, “we will try.  In my time I did not shoot badly, but it is now four years since I touched a pistol.”

“Oh!” I observed, “in that case, I don’t mind laying a wager that Your Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces; the pistol demands practice every day.  I know that from experience.  In our regiment I was reckoned one of the best shots.  It once happened that I did not touch a pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and would you believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot again, I missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces.  Our captain, a witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and he said to me:  ’It is evident, my friend, that your hand will not lift itself against the bottle.’  No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect to practise, or your hand will soon lose its cunning.  The best shot that I ever met used to shoot at least three times every day before dinner.  It was as much his custom to do this as it was to drink his daily glass of brandy.”

The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.