“They are coming—all but poor Jean-Victor.”
“Where is he?” cried the duke.
“Shot through the head with a bullet—died without a word!—ough!”
One night last winter, the Duc de Hardimont left his club about two o’clock in the morning, with his neighbor, Count de Saulnes; the duke had lost some hundred louis, and had a slight headache.
“If you are willing, André,” he said to his companion, “we will go home on foot—I need the air.”
“Just as you please, I am willing, although the walking may he bad.”
They dismissed their coupés, turned up the collars of their overcoats, and set off toward the Madeleine. Suddenly an object rolled before the duke which he had struck with the toe of his boot; it was a large piece of bread spattered with mud.
Then to his amazement, Monsieur de Saulnes saw the Duc de Hardimont pick up the piece of bread, wipe it carefully with his handkerchief embroidered with his armorial bearings, and place it on a bench, in full view under the gaslight.
“What did you do that for?” asked the count, laughing heartily, “are you crazy?”