“I am certain of it. A Prussian or an Austrian would be bigger than that pigeon you see there.”
And I pointed to one perched about three hundred paces off, on the dry branch of a tree.
“You are mad,” said the Prince. “That bird is three times out of range.”
“Certainly, your Grace, for shot; but not for ball?”
“Your gun is loaded, then, with ball?”
“Yes, your Grace; I seldom use anything else.”
“What are you doing, Henri?” the Prince de Condé said, as he appeared in view.
“Nothing, father,” replied the Duke; “I am only saying a few words to this boy here.”
He then bade me farewell, saying that he hoped I would always “think of him kindly.” And waving his hand, he resumed his seat by his father’s side, and disappeared.
I stood almost heart-broken on the spot where the Prince addressed his last words to me.