I understood; I flung my arms round my mother's neck, kissing and hugging her as I thanked her.
"Ah, my dear Madame Dumas," said M. Picot, "let me tell you, to overcome all scruples, that he knows a gun like a gunmaker! What the deuce do you imagine will happen to him?—it is far more likely that I run the risk of his putting an ounce of lead in me."
"Oh! is that likely?" said my mother.
"Yes, but I am not really afraid. I will put him a long distance off me, so don't be anxious."
"And you will load his gun for him?"
"I will load his gun for him—yes."
"Then, since you wish it!"
My poor mother might more truthfully have said, "Since he wishes it!"
I have had many desires fulfilled, many vanities gratified, many ambitions attained or even exceeded, but none of these desires, vanities, realised ambitions ever gave me such joy as those few words of my mother—"Then, since you wish it!"
M. Picot did not keep me long in suspense: he arranged a shooting party for the following Sunday.