that I am used to."

"Really?" said the Countess, with a look of the greatest interest. "And
you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?"

"Some day," replied the Count, "we will try. In my time I did not shoot
badly, but it is now four years since I touched a pistol."

"Oh!" I observed, "in that case, I don't mind laying a wager that Your
Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces; the pistol demands
practice every day. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was
reckoned one of the best shots. It once happened that I did not touch a
pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and would you
believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot again, I
missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces. Our captain, a
witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and he said to me:
'It is evident, my friend, that your hand will not lift itself against
the bottle.' No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect to practise, or
your hand will soon lose its cunning. The best shot that I ever met used
to shoot at least three times every day before dinner. It was as much
his custom to do this as it was to drink his daily glass of brandy."

The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.

"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.

"Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency: if he saw a fly settle
on the wall--you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the truth--
if he saw a fly, he would call out: 'Kouzka, my pistol!' Kouzka would
bring him a loaded pistol--bang! and the fly would be crushed against