Jacques started off at a brisk pace. There was not a human being
to be seen anywhere. The fields were gloomy and desolate. The snow
seemed to shoot along horizontally, so violently was it lashed by
the north wind. On the high, frosted limb of a poplar a raven was
croaking. Jacques stopped every now and again to knock off the snow
which gathered and hardened on the soles of his wooden shoes. He was
not cold, but he found his cloak very heavy. He had gone a long way
and had reached the first undulations of the mountain, the edge of
the forest, when he stopped petrified before the rural guard, who
appeared suddenly at a turn in the road, imposing with his cocked
hat, his sword, and the word "Law" glittering on his belt.
This Father Monhache, who had been a sapper before he became a
rural guard, was greatly dreaded in the land. He was the terror
of the village boys, for whenever he found any of them stealing
apples, shaking the plum-trees, or knocking down nuts, he swore at
them terribly, and then led them by the ear to Monsieur le Maire,
who sentenced the delinquents to a paternal spanking. Jacques was
therefore aghast when he found himself face to face with this
merciless representative of the authority.
"Where are you going, Jacques, in this devil of a storm?"
Jacques tried to concoct some story to explain his expedition; and
before he had decided which would be the most effective, he caught
himself saying simply,--
"I am going to the mountain, Father Monhache, to get some dead wood.
We have none at home, and my mother is ill."
The old guard dropped an oath and said in a voice which was by no
means harsh,--
"Ah, so you are going to the mountain for dead wood, are you? Well,
if I meet you in the village this evening with your fagot, I will
close one eye and wink the other, do you understand? And if you ever
tell anybody what I said, I will pull your ears." And he walked off
with a shrug. He had not gone ten feet when he turned and shouted,
"There is more dead wood in the copse of the Prévoté than anywhere
else."