"My good Martineau, that has happened which I have been expecting," answered Choron; "I killed my uncle with a gun-shot, and now I have killed myself with a pistol-shot. It says somewhere in the Scriptures that 'he who lives by the sword, shall perish by the sword.'"
"You are killed—you, M. Choron?" cried the postman; "there is nothing the matter with you."
Choron smiled and turned round; his clothes were singed, his blood flowed in a stream down his trousers, which were dyed red all down.
"Oh! my God!" exclaimed the postman, starting back. "What can I do for you? Shall I go for the doctor?"
"The doctor—what the devil do you suppose he can do?" replied Choron.
Then, in a melancholy voice, he added: "Did the doctor prevent my poor uncle Berthelin from dying?"
"At least let me do something, M. Choron."
"Go and fetch me two bottles of my cooling draught, from the cellar, and unchain Rocador for me."
The postman, who used to take a passing drink every morning with Choron, took the key, went down into the cellar, got two bottles of white wine, unfastened Rocador and then came back.