"Yes, Choron," M. Deviolaine replied, his heart full; "certainly,—I know what a good, true-hearted fellow you are. We can't help these things. Every bullet finds its billet: it is not your fault—it was fate."
"Oh! Monsieur l'inspecteur" exclaimed Choron, "say that again, you do not know how your words comfort me.... I think my heart will break."
"Cry, my boy, have a good cry, it will do you good," said M. Deviolaine.
"Oh! my God! my God!" the wretched man exclaimed, bursting into sobs, as he fell back on a chair.
Nothing ever moves me so much as to see a great, strong man broken down by deep sorrow.
The sight of Berthelin, struggling in his death agony, his lifeblood welling out of him, moved me less than did the sight of Choron, struggling against despair and unable to shed a tear.
We left that death-chamber, one after another, leaving there only the dying man, the doctor, Moinat and Choron.
And in the night Berthelin died.
You can imagine my mother's state of mind when she heard all that had passed, and the tremendous oration she gave me on random shots. Choron's ball might just as easily have hit me as Berthelin, and then she would have been weeping over my dead body!
I had plenty to say against such reasoning. I told her that of course everything was possible, but that this was the first accident of its kind, within the memory of man, that had happened in the forest; that the fact of its having happened was a good reason why it should not occur again for a century or so; that, within this period, those who were not killed by bullets would be slain by the redoubtable hunter we call Time. In short, there was no reason why I should not form part of hunting-parties to come, as I had of those that had passed.... Alas! my poor mother hadn't a will of her own where I was concerned. I worried her until she gave in. Oh! poor mother mine! the deadly hunter was to slay thee before thy time, just when I was going to make thee happy and comfortable in return for all the sorrows and anxieties I had caused thee!