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“No, not yet; but that will follow, perhaps.”

A scornful smile appeared on the bandit’s lip.

“Peace—yes, Signor Lucien, because you insist so much upon it—but no
marriage; there is not a word said about it in the treaty.”

“No,” said Lucien, “that is probably only written in the future. But let us
speak of something else. Did you hear any thing while I was speaking with
Orlandini?”

“Of your conversation, you mean?”

“No—but of a pheasant, who was also talking somewhere about here?”

“It seemed to me, indeed, that I heard the voice of a bird; but I thought I
was mistaken.”

“No, you were not mistaken,” said the bandit; “there is a cock-pheasant
sitting in the great chestnut tree, about a hundred yards from here. I heard him
a little while ago.”

“Well,” said Lucien, merrily, “we must have him for our dinner to-morrow.

“I should have brought him down long ago,” said Orlandini, “had I not been
afraid they might have thought in the village that I was hunting other game than
pheasants.”

“Apropos,” continued he, putting his gun over his shoulder, which he was just
getting ready, “you shall have that honor, monsieur.”

“Excuse me, sir; I am not as sure of my aim as you are, but I am as deeply
interested in eating my part of the pheasant to-morrow, as you are in shooting
him.”

“The fact is,” said Lucien, “you are not accustomed, as we are, to hunting
after night, and you would certainly shoot too low; besides, if you have nothing
better to do to-morrow, you may then take your turn.”

We stepped out of the ruins on the side opposite that by which we had
entered. Lucien went first, and he had hardly set his foot in the thicket before
we heard the pheasant calling again. It was about eighty steps from us, hid by
the branches of a large chestnut tree, surrounded on all sides by thick
underwood.

“But how in the world will you approach without alarming him?” inquired I;
“it does not appear to me to be very easy.”

“If I could only see him,” said Lucien, “I could shoot him from here.”

“How? from here? Have you a gun that will kill pheasants at eighty steps
distance?”

“With shot—no. With a bullet—yes.”

“With a bullet? Ah, enough then—that’s another thing. You have done very
well not to let me shoot.”

“Would you like to see the pheasant'” asked Orlandini.

“Certainly—it would give me great pleasure.”

“Wait a moment.”

And Orlandini began to imitate the clucking of the hen-pheasant.

At the same moment, without perceiving the bird, we heard a rustling among
the leaves of the chestnut tree; the pheasant ascended from branch to branch,
all the time answering by his cries the treacherous advances made by Orlandini,
until at last he appeared on the top of the tree, perfectly visible, showing a
dark outline on the bluish white of the sky.

Orlandini kept silence—the pheasant remained without moving, and at the same
time Lucien took aim at him and shot.

The pheasant came down like a ball.

“Go seek!” said Lucien to Diamante, who sprung into the bushes, and in a few
minutes returned with the pheasant in his mouth.

The bullet had gone through its body.

“I must compliment you upon that shot,” said I, “particularly as it was done
with a double-barreled gun.”

“Oh,” replied Lucien, “there is not so much merit in it as you think; one of
the barrels being rifled carries the bullet like a carabine.”

“No matter—even with a carabine the shot would deserve a favorable mention.”

“Bah!” said Orlandini, “with a carabine Signor Lucien can strike a five-franc
piece at three hundred steps distance.”

“And do you shoot equally well with a pistol?”

“Nearly so,” replied Lucien; “at twenty-five steps distance I always cut in
two, six bullets out of twelve, on the blade of a knife.”

I raised my hat and bowed to Lucien.

“And your brother,” said I, “is he as good a shot as you are?”

“My brother? Poor Louis! he has never touched a gun or pistol in his life;
and I am always afraid he may get into some bad affair at Paris; for, brave as
he is, he would expose himself to certain death in maintaining the honor of his
country.”