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Count, under the frightful circumstances of the Count's walking up to him, laying his hand on his heart, saying: "You are a brave fellow, have you a mother?" And, on his replying in the affirmative, remarking coolly, "I am sorry for her," and blowing his brains out. The gentleman on the hearth-rug paused in taking his snuff to hear the story, and observed, with great placidity, "I am afraid I must kill that rascal." A few nights elapsed, during which the green-room hearth-rug was without him, and then he reappeared precisely as before, and only incidentally mentioned, in the course of the evening, "Gentlemen, I killed that rascal," He had gone over to Paris on purpose, and tracked the Count to the same gambling house, had thrown a glass of wine in his face in the presence of the company assembled there, had told him that he had come to avenge his young compatriot — and had done it by putting the Count out of the world, and coming back to the hearth-rug as if nothing had happened.