The Shot

CHAPTER I.


We were stationed in the little town of N--. The life of an officer in
the army is well known. In the morning, drill and the riding-school;
dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening, punch
and cards. In N--- there was not one open house, not a single
marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other's rooms, where, except
our uniforms, we never saw anything.

One civilian only was admitted into our society. He was about thirty-
five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old fellow.
His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his habitual
taciturnity, stern disposition, and caustic tongue produced a deep
impression upon our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his existence;
he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name was a foreign one.
He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with distinction. Nobody knew
the cause that had induced him to retire from the service and settle in
a wretched little village, where he lived poorly and, at the same time,
extravagantly. He always went on foot, and constantly wore a shabby
black overcoat, but the officers of our regiment were ever welcome at
his table. His dinners, it is true, never consisted of more than two or
three dishes, prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed
like water. Nobody knew what his circumstances were, or what his income
was, and nobody dared to question him about them. He had a collection of
books, consisting chiefly of works on military matters and a few novels.
He willingly lent them to us to read, and never asked for them back; on
the other hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent
to him. His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls of
his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a
honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the
humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his
favorite weapon was simply incredible: and if he had offered to shoot a
pear off somebody's forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would have
hesitated to place the object upon his head.

Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio--so I will call him--
never joined in it. When asked if he had ever fought, he dryly replied
that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was evident that
such questions were not to his liking. We came to the conclusion that he
had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy victim of his
terrible skill. Moreover, it never entered into the head of any of us to
suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are persons whose mere
look is sufficient to repel such a suspicion. But an unexpected incident
occurred which astounded us