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“There they stood then, back to back, with the mouths of their pistols to the sky. ‘Un!’ I cried, ‘deux! tirez!’ They turned, I saw the smoke of his shot go straight up like a prayer; his pistol dropped. I ran to him. He looked surprised, put out his hand, and fell into my arms. He was dead. Those fools came running up. ‘What is it?’ cried one. I made him a bow. ‘As you see,’ I said; ‘you have made a pretty shot. My friend fired in the air. Messieurs, you had better breakfast in Italy.’ We carried him to the carriage, and covered him with a rug; the others drove for the frontier. I brought him to his room. Here is his letter.” Jules stopped; tears were running down his face. “He is dead; I have closed his eyes. Look here, you know, we are all of us cads–it is the rule; but this–this, perhaps, was the exception.” And without another word he rushed away….

Outside the old fellow’s lodging a dismounted cocher was standing disconsolate in the sun. “How was I to know they were going to fight a duel?” he burst out on seeing me. “He had white hair–I call you to witness he had white hair. This is bad for me: they will ravish my licence. Aha! you will see–this is bad for me!” I gave him the slip and found my way upstairs. The old fellow was alone, lying on the bed, his feet covered with a rug as if he might feel cold; his eyes were closed, but in this sleep of death, he still had that air of faint surprise. At full length, watching the bed intently, Freda lay, as she lay nightly when he was really asleep. The shutters were half open; the room still smelt slightly of rum. I stood for a long time looking at the face: the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, the hollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his figure; he was like some old knight…. The dog broke the spell. She sat up, and resting her paws on the bed, licked his face. I went downstairs–I couldn’t bear to hear her howl. This was his letter to me, written in a pointed handwriting:

“MY DEAR SIR,–Should you read this, I shall be gone. I am ashamed to trouble you–a man should surely manage so as not to give trouble; and yet I believe you will not consider me importunate. If, then, you will pick up the pieces of an old fellow, I ask you to have my sword, the letter enclosed in this, and the photograph that stands on the stove buried with me. My will and the acknowledgments of my property are between the leaves of the Byron in my tin chest; they should go to Lucy Tor–address thereon. Perhaps you will do me the honour to retain for yourself any of my books that may give you pleasure. In the Pilgrim’s Progress you will find some excellent recipes for Turkish coffee, Italian and Spanish dishes, and washing wounds. The landlady’s daughter speaks Italian, and she would, I know, like to have Freda; the poor dog will miss me. I have read of old Indian warriors taking their horses and dogs with them to the happy hunting-grounds. Freda would come–noble animals are dogs! She eats once a day–a good large meal–and requires much salt. If you have animals of your own, sir, don’t forget–all animals require salt. I have no debts, thank God! The money in my pockets would bury me decently–not that there is any danger. And I am ashamed to weary you with details–the least a man can do is not to make a fuss–and yet he must be found ready.–Sir, with profound gratitude, your servant,

“ROGER BRUNE.”

Everything was as he had said. The photograph on the stove was that of a young girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in an old-fashioned style, with hair gathered backward in a knot. The eyes gazed at you with a little frown, the lips were tightly closed; the expression of the face was eager, quick, wilful, and, above all, young.

The tin trunk was scented with dry fragments of some herb, the history of which in that trunk man knoweth not…. There were a few clothes, but very few, all older than those he usually wore. Besides the Byron and Pilgrim’s Progress were Scott’s Quentin Durward, Captain Marryat’s Midshipman Easy, a pocket Testament, and a long and frightfully stiff book on the art of fortifying towns, much thumbed, and bearing date 1863. By far the most interesting thing I found, however, was a diary, kept down to the preceding Christmas. It was a pathetic document, full of calculations of the price of meals; resolutions to be careful over this or that; doubts whether he must not give up smoking; sentences of fear that Freda had not enough to eat. It appeared that he had tried to live on ninety pounds a year, and send the other hundred pounds home to Lucy for the child; in this struggle he was always failing, having to send less than the amount-the entries showed that this was a nightmare to him. The last words, written on Christmas Day, were these “What is the use of writing this, since it records nothing but failure!”

The landlady’s daughter and myself were at the funeral. The same afternoon I went into the concert-room, where I had spoken to him first. When I came out Freda was lying at the entrance, looking into the faces of every one that passed, and sniffing idly at their heels. Close by the landlady’s daughter hovered, a biscuit in her hand, and a puzzled, sorry look on her face.

September 1900.