up like a devil and was going to rush at my wife. Ah! no, no, not
that, my friend! I caught the gentleman with the end of my fist,

CRASH, CRASH, one on the nose, the other in the stomach. He threw
up his arms and legs and fell on his back into the river, just

into the hole.
"I should have fished him out most certainly, Monsieur le

President, if I had had the time. But unfortunately the fat woman
got the better of it, and she was drubbing Melie terribly. I know

that I ought not to have assisted her while the man was drinking
his fill, but I never thought that he would drown, and said to

myself: 'Bah, it will cool him.'
"I therefore ran up to the women to separate them, and all I

received was scratches and bites. Good Lord, what creatures!
Well, it took me five minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those

two viragoes. When I turned round, there was nothing to be seen,
and the water was as smooth as a lake. The others yonder kept

shouting: 'Fish him out!' It was all very well to say that, but I
cannot swim and still less dive!

"At last the man from the dam came, and two gentlemen with
boat-hooks, but it had taken over a quarter of an hour. He was

found at the bottom of the hole in eight feet of water, as I have
said, but he was dead, the poor little man in his linen suit!

There are the facts, such as I have sworn to. I am innocent, on
my honor."

The witnesses having deposed to the same effect, the accused was
acquitted.

LOVE
THREE PAGES FROM A SPORTSMAN'S BOOK

I have just read among the general news in one of the papers a
drama of passion. He killed her and then he killed himself, so he

must have loved her. What matters He or She? Their love alone
matters to me; and it does not interest me because it moves me or

astonishes me, or because it softens me or makes me think, but
because it recalls to my mind a remembrance of my youth, a

strange recollection of a hunting adventure where Love appeared
to me, as the Cross appeared to the early Christians, in the

midst of the heavens.
I was born with all the instincts and the senses of primitive

man, tempered by the arguments and the restraints of a civilized
being. I am passionately fond of shooting, yet the sight of the

wounded animal, of the blood on its feathers and on my hands,
affects my heart so as almost to make it stop.

That year the cold weather set in suddenly toward the end of
autumn, and I was invited by one of my cousins, Karl de Rauville,

to go with him and shoot ducks on the marshes, at daybreak.
My cousin was a jolly fellow of forty, with red hair, very stout

and bearded, a country gentleman, an amiable semi-brute, of a
happy disposition and endowed with that Gallic wit which makes

even mediocrity agreeable. He lived in a house, half farmhouse,
half chateau, situated in a broad valley through which a river

ran. The hills right and left were covered with woods, old
manorial woods where magnificent trees still remained, and where

the rarest feathered game in that part of France was to be found.
Eagles were shot there occasionally, and birds of passage, such

as rarelyventure into our over-populated part of the country,
invariably lighted amid these giant oaks, as if they knew or

recognized some little corner of a primeval forest which had
remained there to serve them as a shelter during their short

nocturnal halt.
In the valley there were large meadows watered by trenches and

separated by hedges; then, further on, the river, which up to
that point had been kept between banks, expanded into a vast

marsh. That marsh was the best shooting ground I ever saw. It was
my cousin's chief care, and he kept it as a preserve. Through the

rushes that covered it, and made it rustling and rough, narrow
passages had been cut, through which the flat-bottomed boats,

impelled and steered by poles, passed along silently over dead
water, brushing up against the reeds and making the swift fish

take refuge in the weeds, and the wild fowl, with their pointed,
black heads, dive suddenly.

I am passionately fond of the water: of the sea, though it is too
vast, too full of movement, impossi-ble to hold; of the rivers

which are so beautiful, but which pass on, and flee away and
above all of the marshes, where the whole unknown existence of

aquatic animals palpitates. The marsh is an entire world in
itself on the world of earth--a different world, which has its

own life, its settled inhabitants and its passing travelers, its
voices, its noises, and above all its mystery. Nothing is more

impressive, nothing more disquieting, more terrifying
occasionally, than a fen. Why should a vague terror hang over

these low plains covered with water? Is it the low rustling of
the rushes, the strange will-o'-the-wisp lights, the silence

which prevails on calm nights, the still mists which hang over
the surface like a shroud; or is it the almost inaudible

splashing, so slight and so gentle, yet sometimes more terrifying
than the cannons of men or the thunders of the skies, which make

these marshes resemble countries one has dreamed of, terrible
countries holding an unknown and dangerous secret?

No, something else belongs to it--another mystery, profounder and
graver, floats amid these thick mists, perhaps the mystery of the

creation itself! For was it not in stagnant and muddy water, amid
the heavy humidity of moist land under the heat of the sun, that

the first germ of life pulsated and expanded to the day?
I arrived at my cousin's in the evening. It was freezing hard

enough to split the stones.
During dinner, in the large room whose side-boards, walls, and

ceiling were covered with stuffed birds, with wings extended or
perched on branches to which they were nailed,--hawks, herons,

owls, nightjars, buzzards, tiercels, vultures, falcons,--my
cousin who, dressed in a sealskin jacket, himself resembled some

strange animal from a cold country, told me what preparations he
had made for that same night.

We were to start at half past three in the morning, so as to
arrive at the place which he had chosen for our watching-place at

about half past four. On that spot a hut had been built of lumps
of ice, so as to shelter us somewhat from the trying wind which

precedes daybreak, a wind so cold as to tear the flesh like a
saw, cut it like the blade of a knife, prick it like a poisoned

sting, twist it like a pair of pincers, and burn it like fire.
My cousin rubbed his hands: "I have never known such a frost," he

said; "it is already twelve degrees below zero at six o'clock in
the evening."

I threw myself on to my bed immediately after we had finished our
meal, and went to sleep by the light of a bright fire burning in

the grate.
At three o'clock he woke me. In my turn, I put on a sheepskin,

and found my cousin Karl covered with a bearskin. After having
each swallowed two cups of scalding coffee, followed by glasses

of liqueur brandy, we started, accompanied by a gamekeeper and
our dogs, Plongeon and Pierrot.

From the first moment that I got outside, I felt chilled to the
very marrow. It was one of those nights on which the earth seems

dead with cold. The frozen air becomes resisting and palpable,
such pain does it cause; no breath of wind moves it, it is fixed