"Wounded! wounded! Did someone say my uncle is wounded?"
No one made answer. We pointed to the dying man, who was freely vomiting blood.
Choron came forward with haggard eyes, the perspiration in beads on his brow, his hair standing on end, and went up to the wounded man; he went paler still, if such were possible, as he looked at him; then he uttered a piercing yell, broke the stock of his gun against a tree, and threw the barrel fifty yards off.
He next fell on his knees, imploring the dying man to pardon him, but the eyes had already closed for ever!
They quickly improvised a litter, and placed the wounded man upon it; then they carried him to Moinat's house, which was only three or four hundred steps from the scene of the accident. We all accompanied the litter, or, rather, we followed Choron, who walked close after it, his arms hanging down, his head lowered, speechless, dry eyed. In the meantime one of the keepers had mounted M. Deviolaine's horse, and had ridden off full gallop to find a doctor.
The doctor arrived in half an hour's time, but only to say what everyone knew for himself when he saw that Berthelin had never regained consciousness—namely, that the wound was mortal.
His wife was still in ignorance of the news, and someone would have to break it to her. M. Deviolaine offered to carry the sad message, and got up to leave the house.
Then Choron rose too, and going up to him—
"M. Deviolaine," he said, "I want it to be understood that as long as I live the poor, dear woman shall never want for anything; and if she will come to live with us, she shall be treated like my own mother."