"By the way, did he die ?" "N'sais pas, Loo-Loo's a good aim." "Sac a papier, yes! Rire-pour-tout taught her." "Ah! There never was a shot like Rire-pour-tout.

When he went out, he always asked his adversary, 'Where will you like it?
your lungs, your heart, your brain?
It is quite a matter of choice;'-- and whichever they chose, he shot there.

Le pauvre Rire-pour-tout! He was always good-natured." "And did he never meet his match ?" asked a sous-officier of the line.
The speaker looked down on the piou-piou with superb contempt, and twisted his mustaches.

"Monsieur! how could he?
He was a Chasseur." "But if he never met his match, how did he die ?" pursued the irreverent piou-piou--a little wiry man, black as a berry, agile as a monkey, tough and short as a pipe-stopper.
The magnificent Chasseur laughed in his splendid disdain.

"A piou-piou never killed him, that I promise you.