The poor woman got up and set out immediately, without being able to leave word where she was going; neither she nor the messenger could write.
When Choron returned at five o'clock and found the house empty, he felt the bed and found it was cold; he called his wife, he hunted all over; she had disappeared.
"So, she has taken advantage of my absence," said Choron, "to go to her lover, and she has not yet returned, thinking I should not be home so soon. She has deceived me—I will kill her!"
He thought he knew where to find her, so he took down his holster pistols, loaded them, put fourteen buckshot in one and seventeen in the other.
The fourteen buckshot were found in the undischarged pistol and the seventeen in Choron's body.
Then he saddled his horse, brought it out of the stable and led it in front of his door.
He put one of the pistols in the right holster, and it fitted perfectly: but the left holster happened to be narrower, and it was difficult to get the pistol into its place, so Choron tried to make it go forcibly: he took the holster in one hand and the butt end of the pistol in his other hand, and violently pushed the pistol into its place; the prod moved the trigger and the gun went off.
Choron had pressed the holster close to him to hold it steady, so the whole charge, shot, wadding, and powder, entered his left side, tearing and rupturing his internal organs.
The postman, who happened to be passing at the moment, ran up at the sound of the shot. Choron was standing, leaning against his saddle.
"My God, what have you done, M. Choron?" asked the postman.