Nobody knew what his circumstances were, or what his income
was, and nobody dared to question him about them. He had a collection of
books, consisting chiefly of works on military matters and a few novels.
He willingly lent them to us to read, and never asked for them back; on
the other hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent
to him. His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls of
his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a
honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the
humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his
favorite weapon was simply incredible: and if he had offered to shoot a
pear off somebody's forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would have
hesitated to place the object upon his head.
Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio--so I will call him--
never joined in it. When asked if he had ever fought, he dryly replied
that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was evident that
such questions were not to his liking. We came to the conclusion that he
had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy victim of his
terrible skill.
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