“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.