"Silvio was his name."
"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting from his seat. "You knew Silvio?"
"How could I fail to know him?—we were comrades; he was received at our mess like a brother-officer. It is now about five years since I last had tidings of him. Then you, Count, also knew him?"
"I knew him very well. Did he never tell you of one very extraordinary incident in his life?"
"Do you mean the slap in the face, Count, that he received from a blackguard at a ball?"
"He did not tell you the name of this blackguard?"
"No, Count, he did not. Forgive me," I added, guessing the truth, "forgive me—I did not—could it really have been you?"
"It was myself," replied the Count, greatly agitated; "and the shots in the picture are a memento of our last meeting."
"Oh, my dear," said the Countess, "for God's sake, do not relate it! It frightens me to think of it."