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sprang downstairs as fast as I could. Tom was
lying huddling against the front door groaning
feebly, blood was flowing from his mouth. Bent
over him stood Vicomte Maurice kicking him
furiously. I fell on the brute so unexpectedly
that he lost his balance and rolled on the floor.
A second well-aimed blow knocked him down
again as he was springing to his feet. Snatching
my hat and my coat I sprang with the dog in my
arms to my carriage and drove full speed to
Avenue de Villiers. It was evident from the
first that the poor dog was suffering from severe
internal injuries. I sat up with him the whole
night, his breathing became more and more
difficult, the hæmorrhage never ceased. In the
morning I shot my faithful friend with my own
hands to spare him further sufferings.
It was a relief to me when I received in the
afternoon a letter from two of Vicomte Maurice’s
fellow officers with a request to be put in
communication with my seconds, the Vicomte having
decided after some hesitation to do me the honour
etc. etc.
I succeeded with difficulty in persuading Colonel
Staaff, the Swedish military attaché, to see me
through this business. My friend Edelfeld, the
well-known Finnish painter, was to be my other
second. Norstrom was to assist me as surgeon.
“Never in my life have I had such luck as
these last twenty-four hours,” said I to Norstrom
as we were sitting at dinner at our usual table in
Café de la Régence. “To tell you the truth I
was terribly afraid that I was going to be afraid.
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