oan, while the
old peasant, drawing the fork out of his breast, plunged it over and over
again into his abdomen, his stomach, his throat, like a madman, piercing
the body from head to foot, as it still quivered, and the blood gushed
out in streams.

Finally he stopped, exhausted by his arduous work, swallowing great
mouthfuls of air, calmed down at the completion of the murder.

As the cocks were beginning to crow in the poultry yard and it was near
daybreak, he set to work to bury the man.

He dug a hole in the manure till he reached the earth, dug down further,
working wildly, in a frenzy of strength with frantic motions of his arms
and body.

When the pit was deep enough he rolled the corpse into it with the fork,
covered it with earth, which he stamped down for some time, and then put
back the manure, and he smiled as he saw the thick snow finishing his
work and covering up its traces with a white sheet.

He then stuck the fork in the manure and went into the house. His bottle,
still half full of brandy stood on the table. He emptied it at a draught,
threw himself on his bed and slept heavily.

He woke up sober, his mind calm and clear, capable of judgment and
thought.

At the end of an hour he was going about the country making inquiries
everywhere for his soldier. He went to see the Prussian officer to find
out why they had taken away his man.

As everyone knew what good friends they were, no one suspected him. He
even directed the research, declaring that the Prussian went to see the
girls every evening.

An old retired gendarme who had an inn in the next village, and a pretty
daughter, was arrested and shot.

LASTING LOVE

It was the end of the dinner that opened the shooting season. The Marquis
de Bertrans with his guests sat around a brightly lighted table, covered
with fruit and flowers. The conversation drifted to love. Immediately
there arose an animated discussion, the same eternal discussion as to
whether it were possible to love more than once. Examples were given of
persons who had loved once; these were offset by those who had loved
violently many times. The men agreed that passion, like sickness, may
attack the same person several times, unless it strikes to kill. This
conclusion seemed quite incontestable. The women, however, who based
their opinion on poetry rather than on practical observation, maintained
that love, the great passion, may come only once to mortals. It resembles