Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 293: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PIOKWICK ABROAD, 243 Gendarme was passing by th: gate of the hotel at the time, and the vociferations of the count met his ears. He immediately ran into the court-yard, rushed up the grand staircase, and hastily entered the room whence the count had issued, and where the events of the evening had taken place. Madame de Valmont was slowly recovering from a state of insensibility, and was calling wildly upon her husband to pardon her. The Gendarme looked around for some one to explain the causes of these strange disturbances—they have since been too well narrated and made known through the joint information of Lafleur, Amelie, the beadle of Saint Sulpice, and the principal actors in the scene—but all was confusion, alarm, and dismay. Suddenly the report of a pistol struck upon his ears. ‘* Great God !” cried Eugenie ; “ he has killed him ! Hector—Hector —Chevalier de Valmont—Oh! spare, spare each other—mercy, for my sake !”” The Gendarme was about to leave the room, and proceed in the direction whence the report of the pistol had appeared to come, when a young man, pale, bleeding, and with horror depicted upon his coun- tenance, staggered into the apartment. : ‘Oh ! Hector—Hector!”’ exclaimed Eugenie, and once more relapsed into a state of unconsciousness, ‘My son—my son!’’ screamed the countess, precipitating herself into his arms: ‘“‘ thank God, you are safe !—But where is the Cheva- lier de Valmont ?’ ‘* By this time on his way to another land—a post-chaise waited cata returned the young man, scarcely able to articulate a sing” word. ‘‘ And that pistol—” cried the ayonized mother. ‘‘ Has righteously punished an offender,’’ said Hector, sinking on a chair, and pointing to his breast. ‘‘ We drew lots to decide who should first use the deadly weapon—” here his voice became thicker —‘* Fortune decided in favour of the chevalier—’’ his words were now almost inaudible—“ he fired+the aim was unerring—and my wound —is—mortal !”’ * # # # * * The blue sky of Paris smiles above the tall towers of Saint Sulpice, and since the celebration of the gorgeous bridal ceremony before described, in the aisle of that sacred edifice the funeral rites have been performed for two individuals whose names principally figure in ths receding tale. Now, in a vault beneath the green sod of Pere Ls haise, repose the remains of the Vicomte Hector de Lamoreau. At a little distance—separated only by a few cypress trees—in the tomb belonging to the family into which she married, and at the exprese desire of her husband who wrote from London a brief though touch- ing letter to the heart-broken Count De Lamoreau to that effect, ie interred the body of Eugenie de Valmont ! a S = a 6)(0)) Si (©)