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Maurice,” said the Countess. “He will be here
for dinner if he can catch the four o’clock train,
he is in garrison in Tours.”
Yes, the Vicomte Maurice was with us for
dinner, very much so. He was a tall, handsome
young fellow with a narrow, sloping forehead,
enormous ears, a cruel jaw and a moustache à la
général Gallifet.
“Quel plaisir inattendu, Monsieur le Suédois,
to meet you here, very unexpected I am sure!”
This time he condescended to give me his hand,
a small, flabby hand with a particularly
unpleasant grip which facilitated my classification
of the man. Remained only to hear him laugh
and he lost no time to offer me this opportunity.
His loud monotonous giggle echoed through the
room during the whole of dinner. He began at
once to tell the Countess a very risky story of
the misadventure which had just happened to
one of his comrades who had found his mistress
in the bed of his orderly. Monsieur l’Abbé was
beginning to look very uncomfortable when the
Count cut him short by telling his wife across
the table about our morning-ride, that the wheat
was in excellent condition, the clover abundant
and that we heard a belated skylark singing his
last concert.
“Nonsense,” said the Vicomte. “There are
still plenty of them on the wing, I shot one
yesterday and a finer shot I never made, the
little beast did not look bigger than a
butterfly.”
I got red in my face to the roots of my hair,
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