As the carriage passed through the wood he told the driver to halt at
a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to have a few shots to kill
time.
Is not the slaying of the monster Time the most usual and legitimate
occupation of man?
So he graciously offered his hand to his dear, adorable, accursed wife;
the mysterious woman who was his inspiration, to whom he owed many of
his sorrows, many of his joys.
Several bullets went wide of the mark; one flew far away into the
distance. His charming wife laughed deliriously, mocking at his
clumsiness. Turning to her, he said brusquely:
"Look at that doll yonder, on your right, with its nose turned up and
so supercilious an air. Think, sweet angel, I will picture to myself
that it is you."
He closed his eyes, he pulled the trigger. The doll's head fell upon
the ground.
Then, bending over his dear, adorable, accursed wife, his inevitable
and merciless muse, he kissed her hand respectfully, and said: "Ah,
sweet Angel, how I thank you for my skill!"