n. Octave and Montlouis were arguing violently, and all
at once the Count struck his future steward a violent blow. In another
moment Montlouis came up to me. 'What is the matter?' cried I. Instead
of replying to my question, the unhappy young man turned back to
his master, uttering a series of threats. Octave had evidently been
reproaching him for some low intrigue he had been engaged in, and
was reflecting upon the character of the woman. 'At any rate,' cried
Montlouis, 'she is quite as virtuous as Madame de Mussidan was before
her marriage.'"

"'As Octave heard these words, he raised the loaded gun he held in his
hand and fired. Montlouis fell to the ground, bathed in blood. We
all ran up to him, but he was quite dead, for the charge of shot had
penetrated his heart. I was almost beside myself, but Octave's despair
was terrible to witness. Tearing his hair, he knelt beside the dead man.
Ludovic, however, maintained his calmness. "We must say that it was an
accident," observed he quickly. "Thinking that Montlouis was not near,
my master fired into cover."

"'This was agreed to, and we carefully arranged what we should say. It
was I who went before the magistrate and made a deposition, which was
unhesitatingly received. But, oh, what a fearful day! My pulse is at
eighty, and I feel I shall not sleep all night. Octave is half mad, and
Heaven knows what will become of him.'"

The Count, from the depths of his armchair, listened without apparent
emotion to this terrible revelation. He was quite crushed, and was
searching for some means to exorcise the green spectre of the past,
which had so suddenly confronted him. Mascarin never took his eyes off
him. All at once the Count roused himself from his prostration, as a man
awakes from a hideous dream. "This is sheer folly," cried he.

"It is folly," answered Mascarin, "that would carry much weight with
it."

"And suppose I were to show you," returned the Count, "that all these
entries are the offspring of a diseased mind?"

Mascarin shook his head with an air of affected grief. "There is no
use, my lord, in indulging in vain hopes. We," he continued, wishing
to associate himself with the Count, "we might of course admit that
the Baron de Clinchain had made this entry in his diary in a moment of
temporary insanity, were it not for the painful fact that there were
others. Le me read them."

"Go on; I am all attention."

"We find the following, three days later: 'Oct.