[Illustration: AN IMMENSE WOLF ENTERED THE ROOM, WALKING ON ITS HIND
LEGS
PAGE 29]
THE NOVELS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
THE WOLF-LEADER
NEWLY TRANSLATED BY
ALFRED ALLINSON
NEVER BEFORE TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
WITH THREE COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FRANK ADAMS
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
[_Copyright: all rights reserved_]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
AN IMMENSE WOLF ENTERED THE ROOM, WALKING ON ITS HIND LEGS _Frontispiece_
A YOUNG GIRL SUDDENLY EMERGED FROM THE UNDERWOOD 23
THE BARON’S HORSE SHIED, THROWING THE RIDER OVER ITS HEAD 80
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION.--WHO MOCQUET WAS, AND HOW THIS TALE BECAME KNOWN
TO THE NARRATOR 1
I.--THE GRAND MASTER OF HIS HIGHNESS’ WOLF HOUNDS 12
II.--THE SEIGNEUR JEAN AND THE SABOT MAKER 16
III.--AGNELETTE 22
IV.--THE BLACK WOLF 27
V.--THE PACT WITH SATAN 31
VI.--THE BEDEVILLED HAIR 35
VII.--THE BOY AT THE MILL 40
VIII.--THIBAULT’S WISHES 44
IX.--THE WOLF-LEADER 47
X.--MAÎTRE MAGLOIRE 51
XI.--DAVID AND GOLIATH 55
XII.--WOLVES IN THE SHEEP-FOLD 60
XIII.--WHERE IT IS DEMONSTRATED THAT A WOMAN NEVER SPEAKS
MORE ELOQUENTLY THAN WHEN SHE HOLDS HER TONGUE 67
XIV.--A VILLAGE WEDDING 72
XV.--THE LORD OF VAUPARFOND 76
XVI.--MY LADY’S LADY 80
XVII.--THE BARON DE MONT-GOBERT 84
XVIII.--DEATH AND RESURRECTION 88
XIX.--THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 90
XX.--TRUE TO TRYST 94
XXI.--THE GENIUS OF EVIL 99
XXII.--THIBAULT’S LAST WISH 105
XXIII.--THE ANNIVERSARY 108
XXIV.--HUNTING DOWN THE WERE-WOLF 111
INTRODUCTION
Although the introductory chapters were not signed until May 31st, 1856,
_The Wolf-Leader_ is to be associated in conception with the group of
romances which Dumas wrote at Brussels between the years 1852 and 1854,
that is to say, after his financial failure and the consequent defection
of his collaborator Maquet, and before his return to Paris to found
his journal _Le Mousquetaire_. Like _Conscience l’Innocent_ and
_Catherine Blum_, which date from that period of exile, the present
story was inspired by reminiscences of our author’s native
place--Villers-Cotterets, in the department of the Aisne.
In _The Wolf-Leader_ Dumas, however, allows his imagination and fancy
full play. Using a legend told to him nearly half a century before,
conjuring up the scenes of his boyhood, and calling into requisition his
wonderful gift of improvisation, he contrives in the happiest way to
weave a romance in which are combined a weird tale of _diablerie_ and
continual delightful glimpses of forest life. Terror, wood-craft, and
humour could not be more felicitously intermingled. The reader, while
kept under the spell of the main theme of the story, experiences all the
charm of an open-air life in the great forest of Villers-Cotterets--the
forest in which the little town seemed to occupy a small clearing, and
into which the boy Alexandre occasionally escaped for days together from
the irksome routine of the school or from the hands of relatives who
wanted to make a priest of him.
Thus Dumas, the most impressionable of men, all his life remained
grateful to the forest for the poetic fancies derived from its beauty
and the mysteries of its recesses, as well as for the hiding-places it
afforded him, and for the game and birds which he soon learnt to shoot
and snare there. Listen to his indignation at the destruction of the
trees in the neighbouring park. We quote from his _Memoirs_:--“That
park, planted by François I., was cut down by Louis Philippe. Beautiful
trees! under whose shade once reclined François I. and Madame d’Etampes,
Henri II. and Diana of Poitiers, Henri IV. and Gabrielle--you had a
right to believe that a Bourbon would have respected you, that you would
have lived your long life--the life of beech trees and oaks; that the
birds would have warbled on your branches when green and leafy. But over
and above your inestimable value of poetry and memories, you had,
unhappily, a material value. You beautiful beeches with your polished
silvery cases! you beautiful oaks with your sombre wrinkled bark!--you
were worth a hundred thousand crowns. The King of France, who, with his
six millions of private revenue, was too poor to keep you--the King of
France sold you. For my part, had you been my sole fortune, I would have
preserved you; for, poet as I am, there is one thing that I would set
before all the gold of the earth, and that is the murmur of the wind in
your leaves; the shadow that you made to flicker beneath my feet; the
sweet visions, the charming phantoms which, at evening time, betwixt the
day and night, in twilight’s doubtful hour would glide between your
age-long trunks as glide the shadows of the ancient Abencerrages amid
the thousand columns of Cordova’s royal mosque.”
_The Wolf-Leader_ was published in 1857, in three volumes (Paris:
Cadot). Dumas reprinted it in his journal _Le Monte-Cristo_ in 1860.
R. S. G.
THE WOLF-LEADER
INTRODUCTION
WHO MOCQUET WAS, AND HOW THIS TALE BECAME KNOWN TO THE NARRATOR
I
Why, I ask myself, during those first twenty years of my literary life,
from 1827 to 1847, did I so rarely turn my eyes and thoughts towards the
little town where I was born, towards the woods amid which it lies
embowered, and the villages that cluster round it? How was it that
during all that time the world of my youth seemed to me to have
disappeared, as if hidden behind a cloud, whilst the future which lay
before me shone clear and resplendent, like those magic islands which
Columbus and his companions mistook for baskets of flowers floating on
the sea?
Alas! simply because during the first twenty years of our life, we have
Hope for our guide, and during the last twenty, Reality.
From the hour when, weary with our journey, we ungird ourselves, and
dropping the traveller’s staff, sit down by the way-side, we begin to
look back over the road that we have traversed; for it is the way ahead
that now is dark and misty, and so we turn and gaze into the depths of
the past.
Then with the wide desert awaiting us in front, we are astonished, as we
look along the path which we have left behind, to catch sight of first
one and then another of those delicious oases of verdure and shade,
beside which we never thought of lingering for a moment, and which,
indeed we had passed by almost without notice.
But, then, how quickly our feet carried us along in those days! we were
in such a hurry to reach that goal of happiness, to which no road has
ever yet brought any one of us.
It is at this point that we begin to see how blind and ungrateful we
have been; it is now that we say to ourselves, if we could but once more
come across such a green and wooded resting-place, we would stay there
for the rest of our lives, would pitch our tent there, and there end our
days.
But the body cannot go back and renew its existence, and so memory has
to make its pious pilgrimage alone; back to the early days and fresh
beginnings of life it travels, like those light vessels that are borne
upward by their white sails against the current of a river. Then the
body once more pursues its journey; but the body without memory is as
the night without stars, as the lamp without its flame.... And so body
and memory go their several ways.
The body, with chance for its guide, moves towards the unknown.
Memory, that bright will-o’-the-wisp, hovers over the land-marks that
are left behind; and memory, we may be sure, will not lose her way.
Every oasis is revisited, every association recalled, and then with a
rapid flight she returns to the body that grows ever more and more
weary, and like the humming of a bee, like the song of a bird, like the
murmur of a stream, tells the tale of all that she has seen.
And as the tired traveller listens, his eyes grow bright again, his
mouth smiles, and a light steals over his face. For Providence in
kindness, seeing that he cannot return to youth, allows youth to return
to him. And ever after he loves to repeat aloud what memory tells him
in her soft, low voice.
And is our life, then, bounded by a circle like the earth? Do we,
unconsciously, continue to walk towards the spot from which we started?
And as we travel nearer and nearer to the grave, do we again draw
closer, ever closer, to the cradle?
II
I cannot say. But what happened to myself, that much at any rate I know.
At my first halt along the road of life, my first glance backwards, I
began by relating the tale of Bernard and his uncle Berthelin, then the
story of Ange Pitou, his fair _fiancée_, and of Aunt Angélique; after
that I told of Conscience and Mariette; and lastly of Catherine Blum and
Father Vatrin.
I am now going to tell you the story of Thibault and his wolves, and of
the Lord of Vez. And how, you will ask, did I become acquainted with the
events which I am now about to bring before you? I will tell you.
Have you read my _Mémoires_, and do you remember one, by name Mocquet,
who was a friend of my father’s?
If you have read them, you will have some vague recollection of this
personage. If you have not read them, you will not remember anything
about him at all.
In either case, then, it is of the first importance that I should bring
Mocquet clearly before your mind’s eye.
As far back as I can remember, that is when I was about three years of
age, we lived, my father and mother and I, in a little Château called
Les Fossés, situated on the boundary that separates the departments of
Aisne and Oise, between Haramont and Longpré. The little house in
question had doubtless been named Les Fossés on account of the deep and
broad moat, filled with water, with which it was surrounded.
I do not mention my sister, for she was at school in Paris, and we only
saw her once a year, when she was home for a month’s holiday.
The household, apart from my father, mother and myself,
consisted--firstly: of a large black dog, called Truffe, who was a
privileged animal and made welcome wherever he appeared, more especially
as I regularly went about on his back; secondly: of a gardener, named
Pierre, who kept me amply provided with frogs and snakes, two species of
living creatures in which I was particularly interested; thirdly: of a
negro, a valet of my father’s, named Hippolyte, a sort of black
merry-andrew, whom my father, I believe, only kept that he might be well
primed with anecdotes wherewith to gain the advantage in his encounters
with Brunel[A] and beat his wonderful stories; fourthly: of a keeper
named Mocquet, for whom I had a great admiration, seeing that he had
magnificent stories to tell of ghosts and were-wolves, to which I
listened every evening, and which were abruptly broken off the instant
the General--as my father was usually called--appeared on the scene;
fifthly: of a cook, who answered to the name of Marie, but this figure I
can no longer recall, it is lost to me in the misty twilight of life; I
remember only the name, as given to someone of whom but a shadowy
outline remains in my memory, and about whom, as far as I recollect,
there was nothing of a very poetic character.
[A] See _Mémoires_.
Mocquet, however, is the only person that need occupy our attention for
the present. Let me try to make him known to you, both as regards his
personal appearance and his character.
III
Mocquet was a man of about forty years of age, short, thick-set, broad
of shoulder, and sturdy of leg. His skin was burnt brown by the sun, his
eyes were small and piercing, his hair grizzled, and his black whiskers
met under his chin in a half circle.
As I look back, his figure rises before me, wearing a three-cornered
hat, and clad in a green waistcoat with silver buttons, velveteen cord
breeches, and high leathern gaiters, with a game-bag over his shoulder,
his gun in his hand, and a cutty-pipe in his mouth.
Let us pause for a moment to consider this pipe, for this pipe grew to
be, not merely an accessory, but an integral part of Mocquet. Nobody
could remember ever having seen Mocquet without it. If by any chance
Mocquet did not happen to have it in his mouth, he had it in his hand.
This pipe, having to accompany Mocquet into the heart of the thickest
coverts, it was necessary that it should be of such a kind as to offer
the least possible opportunity to any other solid body of bringing about
its destruction; for the destruction of his old, well-coloured cutty
would have been to Mocquet a loss that years alone could have repaired.
Therefore the stem of Mocquet’s pipe was not more than half-an-inch
long; moreover you might always wager that half that half inch at least
was supplied by the quill of a feather.
This habit of never being without his pipe, which, by causing the almost
entire disappearance of both canines, had hollowed out a sort of vice
for itself on the left side of his mouth, between the fourth incisor and
the first molar, had given rise to another of Mocquet’s habits; this was
to speak with his teeth clenched, whereby a certain impression of
obstinacy was conveyed by all he said.--This became even more marked if
Mocquet chanced at any moment to take his pipe out of his mouth, for
there was nothing then to prevent the jaws closing and the teeth coming
together in a way which prevented the words passing through them at all
except in a sort of whistle, which was hardly intelligible.
Such was Mocquet with respect to outward appearance. In the following
pages I will endeavour to give some idea of his intellectual capacity
and moral qualities.
IV
Early one morning, before my father had risen, Mocquet walked into his
room, and planted himself at the foot of the bed, stiff and upright as a
sign-post.
“Well, Mocquet,” said my father, “what’s the matter now? what gives me
the pleasure of seeing you here at this early hour?”
“The matter is, General,” replied Mocquet with the utmost gravity, “the
matter is that I am _nightmared_.”
Mocquet had, quite unawares to himself, enriched the language with a
double verb, both active and passive.
“You are _nightmared_?” responded my father, raising himself on his
elbow. “Dear, dear, that’s a serious matter, my poor Mocquet.”
“You are right there, General.”
And Mocquet took his pipe out of his mouth, a thing he did rarely, and
only on the most important occasions.
“And how long have you been _nightmared_?” continued my father
compassionately.
“For a whole week, General.”
“And who by, Mocquet?”
“Ah! I know very well who by,” answered Mocquet, through his teeth,
which were so much the more tightly closed that his pipe was in his
hand, and his hand behind his back.
“And may I also know by whom?”
“By Mother Durand, of Haramont, who, as you will have heard, is an old
witch.”
“No, indeed, I assure you I had no idea of such a thing.”
“Ah! but I know it well enough; I’ve seen her riding past on her
broomstick to her Witches’ Sabbath.”
“You have seen her go by on her broomstick?”
“As plainly as I see you, General; and more than that, she has an old
black billy-goat at home that she worships.”
“And why should she come and nightmare you?”
“To revenge herself on me, because I came upon her once at midnight on
the heath of Gondreville, when she was dancing round and round in her
devil’s circle.”
“This is a most serious accusation which you bring against her, my
friend; and before repeating to anyone what you have been telling me in
private, I think it would be as well if you tried to collect some more
proofs.”
“Proofs! What more proofs do I want! Does not every soul in the village
know that in her youth she was the Mistress of Thibault, the
wolf-leader?”
“Indeed! I must look carefully into this matter, Mocquet.”
“I am looking very carefully into it myself, and she shall pay for it,
the old mole!”
_Old mole_ was an expression that Mocquet had borrowed from his friend
Pierre, the gardener, who, as he had no worse enemies to deal with than
moles, gave the name of mole to everything and everybody that he
particularly detested.
V
“I must look carefully into this matter”--these words were not said by
my father by reason of any belief he had in the truth of Mocquet’s tale
about his nightmare; and even the fact of the nightmare being admitted
by him, he gave no credence to the idea that it was Mother Durand who
had _nightmared_ the keeper. Far from it; but my father was not ignorant
of the superstitions of the people, and he knew that belief in spells
was still wide-spread among the peasantry in the country districts. He
had heard of terrible acts of revenge carried out by the victims on some
man or woman who they thought had bewitched them, in the belief that the
charm would thus be broken; and Mocquet, while he stood denouncing
Mother Durand to my father, had had such an accent of menace in his
voice, and had given such a grip to his gun, that my father thought it
wise to appear to agree with everything he said, in order to gain his
confidence and so prevent him doing anything without first consulting
him.
So, thinking that he had so far gained an influence over Mocquet, my
father ventured to say:
“But before you make her pay for it, my good Mocquet, you ought to be
quite sure that no one can cure you of your nightmare.”
“No one can cure me, General,” replied Mocquet in a tone of conviction.
“How! No one able to cure you?”
“No one; I have tried the impossible.”
“And how did you try?”
“First of all, I drank a large bowl of hot wine before going to bed.”
“And who recommended that remedy? was it Monsieur Lécosse?” Monsieur
Lécosse was the doctor in repute at Villers-Cotterets.
“Monsieur Lécosse?” exclaimed Mocquet. “No, indeed! What should he know
about spells! By my faith, no! it was not Monsieur Lécosse.”
“Who was it, then?”
“It was the shepherd of Longpré.”
“But a bowl of wine, you dunderhead! Why, you must have been dead
drunk.”
“The shepherd drank half of it.”
“I see; now I understand why he prescribed it. And did the bowl of wine
have any effect?”
“Not any, General; she came trampling over my chest that night, just as
if I had taken nothing.”
“And what did you do next? You were not obliged, I suppose, to limit
your efforts to your bowl of hot wine?”
“I did what I do when I want to catch a _wily beast_.”
Mocquet made use of a phraseology which was all his own; no one had ever
succeeded in inducing him to say a _wild beast_; every time my father
said _wild beast_, Mocquet would answer, “Yes, General, I know, a _wily
beast_.”
“You still stick to your _wily beast_, then?” my father said to him on
one occasion.
“Yes, General, but not out of obstinacy.”
“And why then, may I ask?”
“Because, General, with all due respect to you, you are mistaken about
it.”
“Mistaken? I? How?”
“Because you ought not to say a _wild beast_, but a _wily beast_.”
“And what is a _wily beast_, Mocquet?”
“It is an animal that only goes about at night; that is, an animal that
creeps into the pigeon-houses and kills the pigeons, like the pole-cat,
or into the chicken-houses, to kill the chickens, like the fox; or into
the folds, to kill the sheep, like the wolf; it means an animal which is
cunning and deceitful, in short, a _wily beast_.”
It was impossible to find anything to say after such a logical
definition as this.--My father, therefore, remained silent, and Mocquet,
feeling that he had gained a victory, continued to call _wild beasts_,
_wily beasts_, utterly unable to understand my father’s obstinacy in
continuing to call _wily beasts_, _wild beasts_.
So now you understand why, when my father asked him what else he had
done, Mocquet answered, “I did what I do when I want to catch a _wily
beast_.”
We have interrupted the conversation to give this explanation; but as
there was no need of explanation between my father and Mocquet, they had
gone on talking, you must understand, without any such break.
VI
“And what is it you do, Mocquet, when you want to catch this animal of
yours?” asked my father.
“I set a _trarp_, General.” Mocquet always called a trap a trarp.
“Do you mean to tell me you have set a trap to catch Mother Durand?”
My father had of course said _trap_; but Mocquet did not like anyone to
pronounce words differently from himself, so he went on:
“Just so, General; I have set a _trarp_ for Mother Durand.”
“And where have you put your _trarp_? Outside your door?”
My father, you see, was willing to make concessions.
“Outside my door! Much good that would be! I only know she gets into my
room, but I cannot even guess which way she comes.”
“Down the chimney, perhaps?”
“There is no chimney, and besides, I never see her until I feel her.”
“And you do see her, then?”
“As plainly I see you, General.”
“And what does she do?”
“Nothing agreeable, you may be sure; she tramples all over my chest:
thud, thud! thump, thump!”
“Well, where _have_ you set your trap, then?”
“The _trarp_, why, I put it on my own stomach.”
“And what kind of a _trarp_ did you use?”
“Oh! a first-rate _trarp_!”
“What was it?”
“The one I made to catch the grey wolf with, that used to kill M.
Destournelles’ sheep.”
“Not such a first-rate one, then, for the grey wolf ate up your bait,
and then bolted.”
“You know why he was not caught, General.”
“No, I do not.”
“Because it was the black wolf that belonged to old Thibault, the
sabot-maker.”
“It could not have been Thibault’s black wolf, for you said yourself
just this moment that the wolf that used to come and kill M.
Destournelles’ sheep was a grey one.”
“He is grey now, General; but thirty years ago, when Thibault the
sabot-maker was alive, he was black; and, to assure you of the truth of
this, look at my hair, which was black as a raven’s thirty years ago,
and now is as grey as the Doctor’s.”
The Doctor was a cat, an animal of some fame, that you will find
mentioned in my _Mémoires_ and known as the Doctor on account of the
magnificent fur which nature had given it for a coat.
“Yes,” replied my father, “I know your tale about Thibault, the
sabot-maker; but, if the black wolf is the devil, Mocquet, as you say he
is, he would not change colour.”
“Not at all, General; only it takes him a hundred years to become quite
white, and the last midnight of every hundred years, he turns black as a
coal again.”
“I give up the case, then, Mocquet: all I ask is, that you will not tell
my son this fine tale of yours, until he is fifteen at least.”
“And why, General?”
“Because it is no use stuffing his mind with nonsense of that kind,
until he is old enough to laugh at wolves, whether they are white, grey
or black.”
“It shall be as you say, General; he shall hear nothing of this matter.”
“Go on, then.”
“Where had we got to, General?”
“We had got to your _trarp_, which you had put on your stomach, and you
were saying that it was a first-rate _trarp_.”
“By my faith, General, that was a first-rate _trarp_!” It weighed a good
ten pounds. What am I saying! fifteen pounds at least with its chain!
I put the chain over my wrist.
“And what happened that night?”
“That night? why, it was worse than ever! Generally, it was in her
leather overshoes she came and kneaded my chest, but that night she came
in her wooden _sabots_.”
“And she comes like this...?”
“Every blessed one of God’s nights, and it is making me quite thin; you
can see for yourself, General, I am growing as thin as a lath. However,
this morning I made up my mind.”
“And what did you decide upon, Mocquet?”
“Well, then, I made up my mind I would let fly at her with my gun.”
“That was a wise decision to come to. And when do you think of carrying
it out?”
“This evening, or to-morrow at latest, General.”
“Confound it! And just as I was wanting to send you over to
Villers-Hellon.”
“That won’t matter, General. Was it something that you wanted done at
once?”
“Yes, at once.”
“Very well, then, I can go over to Villers-Hellon,--it’s not above a few
miles, if I go through the wood--and get back here this evening; the
journey both ways is only twenty-four miles, and we have covered a few
more than that before now out shooting, General.”
“That’s settled, then; I will write a letter for you to give to M.
Collard, and then you can start.”
“I will start, General, without a moment’s delay.”
My father rose, and wrote to M. Collard; the letter was as follows:
“MY DEAR COLLARD,
“I am sending you that idiot of a
keeper of mine, whom you know; he has
taken into his head that an old woman
_nightmares_ him every night, and, to rid
himself of this vampire, he intends nothing
more nor less than to kill her.
“Justice, however, might not look
favourably on this method of his for curing
himself of indigestion, and so I am going
to start him off to you on a pretext of
some kind or other. Will you, also, on
some pretext or other, send him on, as
soon as he gets to you, to Danré, at
Vouty, who will send him on to Dulauloy,
who, with or without pretext, may then,
as far as I care, send him on to the devil?
“In short, he must be kept going for a
fortnight at least. By that time we shall
have moved out of here and shall be at
Antilly, and as he will then no longer be
in the district of Haramont, and as his
nightmare will probably have left him on
the way, Mother Durand will be able to
sleep in peace, which I should certainly
not advise her to do if Mocquet were
remaining anywhere in her neighbourhood.
“He is bringing you six brace of snipe
and a hare, which we shot while out yesterday
on the marshes of Vallue.
“A thousand-and-one of my tenderest
remembrances to the fair Herminie, and
as many kisses to the dear little Caroline.
“Your friend,
“ALEX. DUMAS.”
An hour later Mocquet was on his way, and, at the end of three weeks, he
rejoined us at Antilly.
“Well,” asked my father, seeing him reappear in robust health, “well,
and how about Mother Durand?”
“Well, General,” replied Mocquet cheerfully, “I’ve got rid of the old
mole; it seems she has no power except in her own district.”
VII
Twelve years had passed since Mocquet’s nightmare, and I was now over
fifteen years of age. It was the winter of 1817 to 1818; ten years
before that date I had, alas! lost my father.
We no longer had a Pierre for gardener, a Hippolyte for valet, or a
Mocquet for keeper; we no longer lived at the Château of Les Fossés or
in the villa at Antilly, but in the market-place of Villers Cotterets,
in a little house opposite the fountain, where my mother kept a _bureau
de tabac_, selling powder and shot as well over the same counter.
As you have already read in my _Mémoires_, although still young, I was
an enthusiastic sportsman. As far as sport went, however, that is
according to the usual acceptation of the word, I had none, except when
my cousin, M. Deviolaine, the ranger of the forest at Villers-Cotterets,
was kind enough to ask leave of my mother to take me with him. I filled
up the remainder of my time with poaching.
For this double function of sportsman and poacher I was well provided
with a delightful single-barrelled gun, on which was engraven the
monogram of the Princess Borghese, to whom it had originally belonged.
My father had given it me when I was a child, and when, after his death,
everything had to be sold, I implored so urgently to be allowed to keep
my gun, that it was not sold with the other weapons, and the horses and
carriages.
The most enjoyable time for me was the winter; then the snow lay on the
ground, and the birds, in their search for food, were ready to come
wherever grain was sprinkled for them. Some of my father’s old friends
had fine gardens, and I was at liberty to go and shoot the birds there
as I liked. So I used to sweep the snow away, spread some grain, and,
hiding myself within easy gun-shot, fire at the birds, sometimes killing
six, eight, or even ten at a time.
Then, if the snow lasted, there was another thing to look forward
to,--the chance of tracing a wolf to its lair, and a wolf so traced was
everybody’s property. The wolf, being a public enemy, a murderer beyond
the pale of the law, might be shot at by all or anyone, and so, in spite
of my mother’s cries, who dreaded the double danger for me, you need not
ask if I seized my gun, and was first on the spot ready for sport.
The winter of 1817 to 1818 had been long and severe; the snow was lying
a foot deep on the ground, and so hard frozen that it had held for a
fortnight past, and still there were no tidings of anything.
Towards four o’clock one afternoon Mocquet called upon us; he had come
to lay in his stock of powder. While so doing, he looked at me and
winked with one eye. When he went out, I followed.
“What is it, Mocquet?” I asked, “tell me.”
“Can’t you guess, Monsieur Alexandre?”
“No, Mocquet.”
“You don’t guess, then, that if I come and buy powder here from Madame,
your mother, instead of going to Haramont for it,--in short, if I walk
three miles instead of only a quarter that distance, that I might
possibly have a bit of a shoot to propose to you?”
“Oh, you good Mocquet! and what and where?”
“There’s a wolf, Monsieur Alexandre.”
“Not really?”
“He carried off one of M. Destournelles’ sheep last night, I have traced
him to the Tillet woods.”
“And what then?”
“Why then, I am certain to see him again to-night, and shall find out
where his lair is, and to-morrow morning we’ll finish his business for
him.”
“Oh, this is luck!”
“Only, we must first ask leave....”
“Of whom, Mocquet?”
“Leave of Madame.”
“All right, come in, then, we will ask her at once.”
My mother had been watching us through the window; she suspected that
some plot was hatching between us.
“I have no patience with you, Mocquet,” she said, as we went in, “you
have no sense or discretion.”
“In what way, Madame?” asked Mocquet.
“To go exciting him in the way you do; he thinks too much of sport as it
is.”
“Nay, Madame, it is with him, as with dogs of breed; his father was a
sportsman, he is a sportsman, and his son will be a sportsman after him;
you must make up your mind to that.”
“And supposing some harm should come to him?”
“Harm come to him with me? With Mocquet? No, indeed! I will answer for
it with my own life, that he shall be safe. Harm happen to him, to him,
the General’s son? Never, never, never!”
But my poor mother shook her head; I went to her and flung my arms round
her neck.
“Mother, dearest,” I cried, “please let me go.”
“You will load his gun for him, then, Mocquet?”
“Have no fear, sixty grains of powder, not a grain more or less, and a
twenty to the pound bullet.”
“And you will not leave him?”
“I will stay by him like his shadow.”
“You will keep him near you?”
“Between my legs.”
“I give him into your sole charge, Mocquet.”
“And he shall be given back to you safe and sound. Now, Monsieur
Alexandre, gather up your traps, and let us be off; your mother has
given her permission.”
“You are not taking him away this evening, Mocquet.”
“I must, Madame, to-morrow morning will be too late to fetch him; we
must hunt the wolf at dawn.”
“The wolf! it is for a wolf-hunt that you are asking for him to go with
you?”
“Are you afraid that the wolf will eat him?”
“Mocquet! Mocquet!”
“But when I tell you that I will be answerable for everything!”
“And where will the poor child sleep?”
“With father Mocquet, of course, he will have a good mattress laid on
the floor, and sheets white as those which God has spread over the
fields, and two good warm coverlids; I promise you that he shall not
catch cold.”
“I shall be all right, mother, you may be sure! Now then, Mocquet, I am
ready.”
“And you don’t even give me a kiss, you poor boy, you!”
“Indeed, yes, dear mother, and a good many more than one!”
And I threw myself on my mother’s neck, stifling her with my caresses as
I clasped her in my arms.
“And when shall I see you again?”
“Oh, do not be uneasy if he does not return before to-morrow evening.”
“How, to-morrow evening! and you spoke of starting at dawn!”
“At dawn for the wolf; but if we miss him, the lad must have a shot or
two at the wild ducks on the marshes of Vallue.”
“I see! you are going to drown him for me!”
“By the name of all that’s good, Madame, if I was not speaking to the
General’s widow--I should say----”
“What Mocquet? What would you say?”
“That you will make nothing but a wretched milksop of your boy.... If
the General’s mother had been always behind him, pulling at his
coat-tails, as you are behind this child, he would never even have had
the courage to cross the sea to France.”
“You are right, Mocquet! take him away! I am a poor fool.”
And my mother turned aside, to wipe away a tear.
A mother’s tear, that heart’s diamond, more precious than all the pearls
of Ophir! I saw it running down her cheek. I ran to the poor woman, and
whispered to her, “Mother, if you like, I will stay at home.”
“No, no, go, my child,” she said, “Mocquet is right; you must, sooner or
later, learn to be a man.”
I gave her another last kiss; then I ran after Mocquet, who had already
started.
After I had gone a few paces, I looked round; my mother had run into the
middle of the road, that she might keep me in sight as long as possible;
it was my turn now to wipe away a tear.
“How now?” said Mocquet, “you crying too, Monsieur Alexandre!”
“Nonsense, Mocquet! it’s only the cold makes my eyes run.”
But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not
because of the cold that I was crying.
VIII
It was pitch dark when we reached Mocquet’s house. We had a savoury
omelette and stewed rabbit for supper, and then Mocquet made my bed
ready for me. He kept his word to my mother, for I had a good mattress,
two white sheets and two good warm coverlids.
“Now,” said Mocquet, “tuck yourself in there, and go to sleep; we may
probably have to be off at four o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“At any hour you like, Mocquet.”
“Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and to-morrow morning
I shall have to throw a jug of cold water over you to make you get up.”
“You are welcome to do that, Mocquet, if you have to call me twice.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
“Are you in a hurry to go to sleep, Mocquet?”
“Why, whatever do you want me to do at this hour of the night?”
“I thought, perhaps, Mocquet, you would tell me one of those stories
that I used to find so amusing when I was a child.”
“And who is going to get up for me at two o’clock to-morrow, if I sit
telling you tales till midnight? Our good priest, perhaps?”
“You are right, Mocquet.”
“It’s fortunate you think so!”
So I undressed and went to bed. Five minutes later Mocquet was snoring
like a bass viol.
I turned and twisted for a good two hours before I could get to sleep.
How many sleepless nights have I not passed on the eve of the first
shoot of the season! At last, towards midnight fatigue gained the
mastery over me. A sudden sensation of cold awoke me with a start at
four o’clock in the morning; I opened my eyes. Mocquet had thrown my
bed-clothes off over the foot of the bed, and was standing beside me,
leaning both hands on his gun, his face beaming out upon me, as, at
every fresh puff of his short pipe, the light from it illuminated his
features.
“Well, how have you got on, Mocquet?”
“He has been tracked to his lair.”
“The wolf? and who tracked him?”
“This foolish old Mocquet.”
“Bravo!”
“But guess where he has chosen to take covert, this most accommodating
of good wolves!”
“Where was it then, Mocquet?”
“If I gave you a hundred chances you wouldn’t guess! in the Three Oaks
Covert.”
“We’ve got him, then?”
“I should rather think so.”
The Three Oaks Covert is a patch of trees and undergrowth, about two
acres in extent, situated in the middle of the plain of Largny, about
five hundred paces from the forest.
“And the keepers?” I went on.
“All had notice sent them,” replied Mocquet; “Moynat, Mildet, Vatrin,
Lafeuille, all the best shots in short, are waiting in readiness just
outside the forest. You and I, with Monsieur Charpentier, from Vallue,
Monsieur Hochedez, from Largny, Monsieur Destournelles, from Les Fossés,
are to surround the Covert; the dogs will be slipped, the field-keeper
will go with them, and we shall have him, that’s certain.”
“You’ll put me in a good place, Mocquet?”
“Haven’t I said that you will be near me; but you must get up first.”
“That’s true---- Brrou!”
“And I am going to have pity on your youth and put a bundle of wood in
the fire-place.”
“I didn’t dare ask for it; but, on my word of honour, it will be kind of
you if you will.”
Mocquet went out and brought in an armful of wood from the timber-yard,
and threw it on to the hearth, poking it down with his foot; then he
threw a lighted match among the twigs, and in another moment the clear
bright flames were dancing and crackling up the chimney. I went and sat
on the stool by the fireside, and there dressed myself; you may be sure
that I was not long over my toilette; even Mocquet was astonished at my
celerity.
“Now, then,” he said, “a drop of this, and then off!” And saying this,
he filled two small glasses with a yellowish coloured liquor, which did
not require any tasting on my part to recognize.
“You know I never drink brandy, Mocquet.”
“Ah, you are your father’s son, all over! What will you have, then?”
“Nothing, Mocquet, nothing.”
“You know the proverb: ‘Leave the house empty; the devil will be there.’
Believe me, you had better put something into your stomach, while I load
your gun, for I must keep my promise to that poor mother of yours.”
“Well, then, I will have a crust of bread and a glass of _pignolet_.”
_Pignolet_ is a light wine made in non-winegrowing districts, generally
said to require three men to drink it, one to drink, and two to hold
him; I was, however, pretty well accustomed to _pignolet_, and could
drink it up without help. So I swallowed my glass of wine while Mocquet
loaded my gun.
“What are you doing, Mocquet?” I asked him.
“Making a cross on your bullet,” he replied. “As you will be near me, we
shall probably let fly together, and, although I know you would give me
up your share, still, for the glory of it, it will be as well to know
which of us killed him, if the wolf falls. So, mind you aim straight.”
“I’ll do my best, Mocquet.”
“Here’s your gun, then, loaded for bird-shooting; and now, gun over your
shoulder, and off we start.”
IX
The meeting-place was on the road leading to Chavigny. Here we found the
keepers and some of the huntsmen, and within another ten minutes those
who were missing had also joined us. Before five o’clock struck, our
number was complete, and then we held a council of war to decide our
further proceedings. It was finally arranged that we should first take
up our position round the Three Oaks Covert at some considerable
distance from it, and then gradually advance so as to form a cordon
round it. Everything was to be done with the utmost silence, it being
well known that wolves decamp on hearing the slightest noise. Each of us
was ordered to look carefully along the path he followed, to make quite
sure that the wolf had not left the covert. Meanwhile the field-keeper
was holding Mocquet’s hounds in leash.
One by one we took our stand facing the covert, on the spot to which our
particular path had conducted us. As it happened, Mocquet and I found
ourselves on the north side of the warren, which was parallel with the
forest.
Mocquet had rightly said that we should be in the best place, for the
wolf would in all probability try and make for the forest, and so would
break covert on our side of it.
We took our stand, each in front of an oak tree, fifty paces apart from
one another, and then we waited, without moving, and hardly daring to
breathe. The dogs on the farther side of the warren were now uncoupled;
they gave two short barks, and were then silent. The keeper followed
them into the covert, calling halloo as he beat the trees with his
stick. But the dogs, their eyes starting out of their heads, their lips
drawn back, and their coats bristling, remained as if nailed to the
ground. Nothing would induce them to move a step further.
“Halloa, Mocquet!” cried the keeper, “this wolf of yours must be an
extra plucky one, Rocador and Tombelle refuse to tackle him.”
But Mocquet was too wise to make any answer, for the sound of his voice
would have warned the wolf that there were enemies in that direction.
The keeper went forward, still beating the trees, the two dogs after him
cautiously advancing step by step, without a bark, only now and then
giving a low growl.
All of a sudden there was a loud exclamation from the keeper, who called
out, “I nearly trod on his tail! the wolf! the wolf! Look out, Mocquet,
look out!”
And at that moment something came rushing towards us, and the animal
leapt out of the covert, passing between us like a flash of lightning.
It was an enormous wolf, nearly white with age. Mocquet turned and sent
two bullets after him; I saw them bound and rebound along the snow.
“Shoot, shoot!” he called out to me.
Only then did I bring my gun to the shoulder; I took aim, and fired; the
wolf made a movement as if he wanted to bite his shoulder.
“We have him! we have him!” cried Mocquet, “the lad has hit his mark!
Success to the innocent!”
But the wolf ran on, making straight for Moynat and Mildet, the two best
shots in the country round.
Both their first shots were fired at him in the open; the second, after
he had entered the forest.
The two first bullets were seen to cross one another, and ran along the
ground, sending up spurts of snow; the wolf had escaped them both, but
he had no doubt been struck down by the others; that the two keepers who
had just fired should miss their aim, was an un-heard of thing. I had
seen Moynat kill seventeen snipe one after the other; I had seen Mildet
cut a squirrel in two as he was jumping from tree to tree.
The keepers went into the forest after the wolf; we looked anxiously
towards the spot where they had disappeared. We saw them reappear,
dejected, and shaking their heads.
“Well?” cried Mocquet interrogatively.
“Bah!” answered Mildet, with an impatient movement of his arm, “he’s at
Taille-Fontaine by this time.”
“At Taille-Fontaine!” exclaimed Mocquet, completely taken aback. “What!
the fools have gone and missed him, then!”
“Well, what of that? you missed him yourself, did you not?”
Mocquet shook his head.
“Well, well, there’s some devilry about this,” he said. “That I should
miss him was surprising, but it was perhaps possible; but that Moynat
should have shot twice and missed him is not possible, no, I say, no.”
“Nevertheless, so it is, my good Mocquet.”
“Besides, you, you hit him,” he said to me.
“I!... are you sure?”
“We others may well be ashamed to say it. But as sure as my name is
Mocquet, you hit the wolf.”
“Well, it’s easy to find out if I did hit him, there would be blood on
the snow.--Come, Mocquet, let us run and see.” And suiting the action to
the word, I set off running.
“Stop, stop, do not run, whatever you do,” cried Mocquet, clenching his
teeth and stamping. “We must go quietly, until we know better what we
have to deal with.”
“Well, we will go quietly, then; but at any rate, let us go!”
Mocquet then began to follow the wolf’s track, step by step.
“There’s not much fear of losing it,” I said.
“It’s plain enough.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I am looking for.”
“What are you looking for, then?”
“You will know in a minute or two.”
The other huntsmen had now joined us, and as they came along after us,
the keeper related to them what had taken place. Meanwhile, Mocquet and
I continued to follow the wolf’s footprints, which were deeply indented
in the snow. At last we came to the spot where he had received my fire.
“There, Mocquet,” I said to him, “you see I did miss him after all!”
“How do you know that you missed him?”
“Because there are no blood marks.”
“Look for the mark of your bullet, then, in the snow.”
I looked to see which way my bullet would have sped if it had not hit
the wolf, and then went in that direction; but I tracked for more than a
quarter of a mile to no purpose, so I thought I might as well go back to
Mocquet. He beckoned to the keepers to approach, and then turning to me,
said:--
“Well, and the bullet?”
“I cannot find it.”
“I have been luckier than you, then, for I have found it.”
“What, you found it?”
“Right about and come behind me.”
I did as I was told, and the huntsmen having come up, Mocquet pointed
out a line to them beyond which they were not to pass. The keepers
Mildet and Moynat now joined us. “Well?” said Mocquet to them in their
turn.
“Missed,” they both answered at once.
“I saw you had missed him in the open, but when he had reached covert
...?”
“Missed him there too.”
“Are you sure?”
“Both the bullets have been found, each of them in the trunk of a tree.”
“It is almost past belief,” said Vatrin.
“Yes,” rejoined Mocquet, “it is almost past belief, but I have something
to show you which is even more difficult to believe.”
“Show it us, then.”
“Look there, what do you see on the snow?”
“The track of a wolf; what of that?”
“And close to the mark of the right foot--there--what do you see?”
“A little hole.”
“Well, do you understand?”
The keepers looked at each other in astonishment.
“Do you understand now?” repeated Mocquet.
“The thing’s impossible!” exclaimed the keepers.
“Nevertheless it is so, and I will prove it to you.”
And so saying, Mocquet plunged his hand into the snow, felt about a
moment or two, and then, with a cry of triumph, pulled out a flattened
bullet.
“Why, that’s my bullet,” I said.
“You recognise it, then?”
“Of course I do, you marked it for me.”
“And what mark did I put on it?”
“A cross.”
“You see, sirs,” said Mocquet.
“Yes, but explain how this happened.”
“This is it; he could turn aside the ordinary bullets, but he had no
power over the youngster’s, which was marked with a cross; it hit him in
the shoulder, I saw him make a movement as if to try and bite himself.”
“But,” I broke in, astonished at the silence and amazement which had
fallen on the keepers, “if my bullet hit him in the shoulder, why did it
not kill him?”
“Because it was made neither of gold nor of silver, my dear boy; and
because no bullets but those that are made of gold or silver can pierce
the skin of the devil, or kill those who have made a compact with him.”
“But, Mocquet,” said the keepers, shuddering, “do you really think
...?”
“Think? Yes, I do! I could swear that we have had to do this morning
with Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf.”
The huntsman and keepers looked at one another; two or three of them
made the sign of the cross; and they all appeared to share Mocquet’s
opinion, and to know quite well what he meant by Thibault’s wolf. I,
alone, knew nothing about it, and therefore asked impatiently, “What is
this wolf, and who is this Thibault, the sabot-maker?”
Mocquet hesitated before replying, then, “Ah! to be sure!” he exclaimed,
“the General told me that I might let you know about it when you were
fifteen. You are that age now, are you not?”
“I am sixteen,” I replied with some pride.
“Well, then, my dear Monsieur Alexandre, Thibault, the sabot-maker’s
wolf, is the devil. You were asking me last night for a tale, were you
not?”
“Yes.”
“Come back home with me this morning, then, and I will tell you a tale,
and a fine one too.”
The keepers and huntsmen shook hands with one another in silence and
separated, each going his own way; I went back with Mocquet, who then
told me the tale which you shall now hear.
Perhaps you will ask me why, having heard it so long ago, I have not
told it before. I can only answer you by saying it has remained hidden
away in a drawer of my memory, which has remained closed ever since, and
which I only opened again three days ago. I would tell you what induced
me to do this, but you might, I fear, find the recital somewhat tedious,
and as it would take time, I prefer starting at once upon my tale.
I say my tale; I ought perhaps to call it Mocquet’s tale--but, upon my
word! when you have been sitting on an egg for thirty-eight years, you
may be excused for coming to believe at last that you’ve laid it
yourself!
THE WOLF-LEADER
CHAPTER I
THE GRAND MASTER OF HIS HIGHNESS’ WOLF HOUNDS
The Seigneur Jean, Baron of Vez, was a hardy and indefatigable
sportsman.
If you follow the beautiful valley which runs between Berval and
Longpré, you will see, on your left hand, an old tower, which by reason
of its isolated position will appear doubly high and formidable to you.
At the present moment it belongs to an old friend of the writer of this
tale, and everyone is now so accustomed to its forbidding aspect, that
the peasant passing that way in summer has no more fear of seeking
shelter from the heat beneath its walls than the martins with their long
black wings and shrill cries, and the swallows with their soft
chirrupings, have of building their nests under its eaves.
But at the time we are now speaking of, somewhere about 1780, this
lordly dwelling of Vez was looked upon with different eyes, and, it must
be confessed, it did not then offer so safe a place of retreat. It was a
building of the twelfth or thirteenth century, rugged and gloomy, its
terrifying exterior having assumed no kindlier aspect as the years
rolled by. True, the sentinel with his measured tread and flashing
steel-cap no longer paced its ramparts, the archer with his
shrill-sounding horn no longer kept watch and ward on the battlements;
true the postern was no longer guarded by true men at arms, ready at the
least signal of danger to lower the portcullis and draw up the bridge;
but the solitude alone which surrounded this grim giant of granite was
sufficient to inspire the feeling of awe-inspiring majesty awakened by
all mute and motionless things.
The lord of this old fortress, however, was by no means so much to be
dreaded; those who were more intimately acquainted with him than were
the peasants, and could do him more justice, asserted that his bark was
worse than his bite, and that he caused more fear than harm--that is,
among his fellow Christians. With the animals of the forest it was
different, for he was avowedly their mortal and implacable enemy.
He was chief wolf-hunter to his Royal Highness Louis Philippe of
Orleans, the fourth of that name,--a post which allowed him to gratify
the inordinate passion he had for the chase. Although it was not easy,
it was yet possible to bring the Baron to listen to reason in other
matters; but as regards the chase, if once he had got a fixed idea in
his head, nothing would satisfy him until he had carried it out and had
achieved his purpose.
His wife, according to report, was the natural daughter of the Prince,
which, in conjunction with his title of chief wolf-hunter, gave him
almost absolute power throughout the domains of his illustrious
father-in-law, a power which no one dared to contest with him,
especially after the re-marriage of his Royal Highness with Madame de
Montesson. This had taken place in 1773, since which date he had almost
abandoned his castle at Villers-Cotterets for his delightful residence
at Bagnolet, where he entertained all the first wits of the day and
amused himself with play-acting.
And so, whether the sun was shining to rejoice the earth, or the rain
was saddening it, whether the winter fields lay hidden beneath a shroud
of snow, or the spring had spread her fresh green carpet over the
meadows, it was rare, on any day of the year, not to see the great gates
of the Castle thrown wide open between eight and nine o’clock in the
morning, and first the Baron come forth, and immediately after him his
chief pricker, Marcotte, followed by the other prickers. Then appeared
the dogs, coupled and held in leash by the keepers of the hounds, under
the superintendence of Engoulevent, who aspired to become a pricker.
Even as the German executioner walks alone, behind the nobles and in
front of the citizens, to show that he is the least of the former and
the first of the latter, so he walked immediately after the prickers and
ahead of the keepers of the hounds, as being the chief of the
whippers-in and least of the prickers.
The whole procession filed out of the castle court in full hunting
array, with the English horses and the French hounds; twelve horses, and
forty dogs.
Before we go any farther, let me say that with these twelve horses and
forty dogs the Baron hunted every sort of quarry, but more especially
the wolf, in order no doubt to do honour to his title.
No further proof will be needed by the genuine sportsman of the fine
faith he had in the general quality of his hounds, and in their keenness
of scent, than the fact that next to the wolf he gave preference to the
boar, then to the red deer, then to the fallow-deer, and lastly to the
roebuck; finally, if the keepers of the pack failed to sight the animal
they had tracked, he uncoupled at random, and went after the first hare
that crossed his path. For, as we have already stated, the worthy Baron
went out hunting every day, and he would sooner have gone for
four-and-twenty hours without food or drink, although he was often
thirsty, than have spent that time without seeing his hounds run.
But, as everybody knows, however swift the horses, and however keen the
dogs, hunting has its bad times as well as its good.
One day, Marcotte came up to where the Baron was awaiting him, with a
crestfallen expression of countenance.
“How now, Marcotte,” asked the Baron frowning, “what is the matter this
time? I see by your face we are to expect bad sport to-day.”
Marcotte shook his head.
“Speak up, man,” continued the Baron with a gesture of impatience.
“The matter is, my Lord, that the black wolf is about.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the Baron, his eyes sparkling; for you must know
that this made the fifth or sixth time that the worthy Baron had started
the animal in question, but never once had he been able to get within
gun-shot of him or to run him down.
“Yes,” Marcotte went on, “but the damned beast has employed himself so
well all night crossing his track and doubling, that after having traced
him over half the forest, I found myself at the place from which I
started.”
“You think then, Marcotte, that there is no chance of getting near him.”
“I am afraid not.”
“By all the devils in hell!” exclaimed the Lord of Vez, who had not had
his equal in swearing since the mighty Nimrod, “however, I am not
feeling well to-day, and I must have a burst of some kind, to get rid of
these bad humours. What do you think we can hunt, Marcotte, in place of
this damned black wolf?”
“Well, having been so taken up with the wolf,” answered Marcotte, “I
have not traced any other animal. Will my Lord uncouple at random and
hunt the first animal that we come across?”
The Baron was about to express his willingness to agree to this proposal
when he caught sight of little Engoulevent coming towards them cap in
hand.
“Wait a moment,” he said, “here comes Engoulevent, who, I fancy, has
some advice to give us.”
“I have no advice to give to a noble Lord like yourself,” replied
Engoulevent, assuming an expression of humility on his sly and crafty
face; “it is, however, my duty to inform you that there is a splendid
buck in the neighbourhood.”
“Let us see your buck, Engoulevent,” replied the chief wolf-hunter, “and
if you are not mistaken about it, there will be a new crown for you.”
“Where is this buck of yours?” asked Marcotte, “but look to your skin,
if you make us uncouple to no purpose.”
“Let me have Matador and Jupiter, and then we shall see.” Matador and
Jupiter were the finest among the hounds belonging to the Lord of Vez.
And indeed, Engoulevent had not gone a hundred paces with them through
the thicket, before, by the lashing of their tails, and their repeated
yelping, he knew that they were on the right scent. In another minute or
two a magnificent ten-tined stag came into view. Marcotte cried
Tally-ho, sounded his horn, and the hunt began, to the great
satisfaction of the Lord of Vez, who, although regretting the black
wolf, was willing to make the best of a fine buck in its stead. The hunt
had lasted two hours, and the quarry still held on. It had first led its
pursuers from the little wood of Haramont to the Chemin du Pendu, and
thence straight to the back of Oigny, and it still showed no sign of
fatigue; for it was not one of those poor animals of the flat country
who get their tails pulled by every wretched terrier.
As it neared the low grounds of Bourg-fontaine, however, it evidently
decided that it was being run rather hard, for it gave up the bolder
measures which had hitherto enabled it to keep ahead, and began to
double.
Its first manœuvre was to go down to the brook which joins the ponds
of Baisemont and Bourg, then to walk against stream with the water up to
its haunches, for nearly half a mile; it then sprang on to the right
bank, back again into the bed of the stream, made another leap to the
left, and with a succession of bounds, as vigorous as its failing
strength allowed, continued to out-distance its pursuers. But the dogs
of my lord Baron were not animals to be put out by such trifles as
these. Being both sagacious and well-bred, they, of their own accord,
divided the task between themselves, half going up stream, and half
down, these hunting on the right those on the left, and so effectually
that they ere long put the animal off its changes, for they soon
recovered the scent, rallying at the first cry given by one of the pack,
and starting afresh on the chase, as ready and eager as if the deer had
been only twenty paces in front of them.
And so with galloping of horses, with cry of hounds and blare of horn,
the Baron and his huntsmen reached the ponds of Saint Antoine, a hundred
paces or so from the Confines of Oigny. Between these and the Osier-beds
stood the hut of Thibault, the sabot-maker.
We must pause to give some description of this Thibault, the shoe-maker,
the real hero of the tale.
You will ask why I, who have summoned kings to appear upon the stage,
who have obliged princes, dukes, and barons to play secondary parts in
my romances, should take a simple shoe-maker for the hero of this tale.
First, I will reply by saying that, in my dear home country of
Villers-Cotterets, there are more sabot-makers than barons, dukes and
princes, and that, as soon as I decided to make the forest the scene of
the events I am about to record, I was obliged to choose one of the
actual inhabitants of this forest as hero, unless I had wished to
represent such fantastic persons as the _Incas_ of Marmontel or the
_Abencerrages_ of M. de Florian.
More than that, it is not the author who decides on the subject, but the
subject which takes possession of the author, and, good or bad, this
particular subject has taken possession of me. I will therefore
endeavour to draw Thibault’s portrait for you, plain shoe-maker as he
was, as exactly as the artist paints the portrait which a prince desires
to send to his lady-love.
Thibault was a man between twenty-five and twenty-seven years of age,
tall, well made, physically robust, but by nature melancholy and sad of
heart. This depression of spirits arose from a little grain of envy,
which, in spite of himself, perhaps unconsciously to himself, he
harboured towards all such of his neighbours as had been more favoured
by fortune than himself.
His father had committed a fault, a serious one at all times, but more
especially in those days of absolutism, when a man was not able to rise
above his station as now-a-days, when with sufficient capacity he may
attain to any rank. Thibault had been educated above his position; he
had been at school under the Abbé Fortier, at Villers-Cotterets, and had
learnt to read, write, and cypher; moreover he knew a little Latin,
which made him inordinately proud of himself. Thibault had spent a great
part of his time in reading, and his books had been chiefly those which
were in vogue at the close of the preceding century. But he had not been
a sufficiently clever analyst to know how to separate the good from the
bad, or rather he _had_ separated what was bad, and swallowed it in
large doses, leaving the good to precipitate itself at the bottom of the
glass.
At twenty years of age Thibault had certainly had dreams of being
something other than a sabot-maker. He had, for instance, for a very
little while, cast his eyes towards the army. But his comrades who had
worn the double livery of king and country, had left the service as they
entered it, mere soldiers of the ranks, having failed during five or six
years of slavery to obtain promotion, even to the not very exalted grade
of corporal.
Thibault had also thought of becoming a sailor. But a career in the navy
was as much forbidden to the plebeian as one in the army. Possibly after
enduring danger, and storm and battle for fifteen or twenty years, he
might be made a boatswain’s mate, that was all, and then! besides, it
was by no means Thibault’s ambition to wear a short vest and sail-cloth
trousers, but the blue uniform of the king with red vest and gold
epaulettes. He had moreover known of no single case in which the son of
a mere shoe-maker had become Master of a Frigate, or even Lieutenant. So
he was forced to give up all idea of joining the King’s Navy.
Thibault would not have minded being a Notary, and at one time thought
of apprenticing himself to the Royal Scrivener, Maître Niquet, as a
stepping-stone, and of making his way up on the strength of his own legs
and with the help of his pen. But supposing him to have risen to the
position of head clerk with a salary of a hundred crowns, where was he
to find the thirty thousand francs which would be required for the
purchase of the smallest village practice.
There was, therefore, no better chance of his becoming a scrivener than
of becoming an officer on sea or land. Meanwhile, Thibault’s father
died, leaving very little ready money. There was about enough to bury
him, so he was buried, and this done, there remained some thirty or
forty francs over for Thibault.
Thibault knew his trade well; indeed, he was a first-rate workman; but
he had no inclination to handle either auger or parer. It ended,
therefore, by his leaving all his father’s tools in the care of a
friend, a remnant of prudence still remaining to him, and selling every
vestige of furniture; having thus realised a sum of five hundred and
forty livres, he determined to make what was then called the tour of
France.
Thibault spent three years in travelling; he did not make his fortune
during that time, but he learnt a great many things in the course of his
journey of which he was previously ignorant, and acquired certain
accomplishments which he had previously been without.
He learned amongst other things that, although it was as well to keep
one’s word on matters of business with a man, it was no use whatever
keeping love vows made to a woman.
So much for his character and habits of mind. As to his external
accomplishments, he could dance a jig beautifully, could hold his own at
quarter-staff against four men, and could handle the boar-spear as
cleverly as the best huntsman going. All these things had not a little
served to increase Thibault’s natural self-esteem, and, seeing himself
handsomer, stronger, and cleverer than many of the nobles, he would
exclaim against Providence, crying, “Why was I not nobly born? why was
not that nobleman yonder born a peasant?”
But as Providence took care not to make any answer to these apostrophés,
and as Thibault found that dancing, playing at quarter-staff, and
throwing the boar-spear only fatigued the body, without procuring him
any material advantage, he began to turn his thoughts towards his
ancient trade, humble though it was, saying to himself, if it enabled
the father to live, it would also enable the son. So Thibault went and
fetched away his tools; and then, tools in hand, he went to ask
permission of the Steward of his Royal Highness Louis Philippe of
Orleans, to build a hut in the forest, in which to carry on his trade.
He had no difficulty in obtaining this, for the steward knew by
experience that his master was a very kind-hearted man, expending as
much as two hundred and forty thousand francs a year on the poor; he
felt sure, therefore, that one who gave away a sum like this, would be
willing to let an honest workman who wished to ply his trade, have
thirty or forty feet of ground.
As he had leave to establish himself in whatever part of the forest he
liked best, Thibault chose the spot near the osier-beds, where the roads
crossed, one of the most beautiful parts of the woods, less than a mile
from Oigny and about three times that distance from Villers-Cotterets.
The shoe-maker put up his work-shop, built partly of old planks given
him by M. Panisis, who had been having a sale in the neighbourhood, and
partly of the branches which the steward gave him leave to cut in the
forest.
When the building of the hut, which consisted of a bedroom, cosily shut
in, where he could work during the winter, and of a lean-to, open to the
air, where he could work in the summer, was completed, Thibault began to
think of making himself a bed. At first, a layer of fern had to serve
for this purpose; but after he had made a hundred pairs of wooden shoes
and had sold these to Bedeau, who kept a general shop at
Villers-Cotterets, he was able to pay a sufficient deposit to get a
mattress, to be paid for in full by the end of three months. The
framework of the bed was not difficult to make; Thibault was not the
shoe-maker he was without being a bit of a carpenter into the bargain,
and when this was finished he plaited osiers to take the place of
sacking, laid the mattress upon them, and found himself at last with a
bed to lie upon.
Little by little came the sheets, and then in their turn the coverlids;
the next purchase was a chafing-dish, and earthenware pots to cook in,
and finally some plates and dishes. Before the year was out Thibault had
also made additions to his furniture of a fine oak chest and a fine
walnut-wood cupboard, both, like the bed, his own handiwork. All the
while he was driving a brisk trade, for none could beat Thibault in
turning a block of beech into a pair of shoes, and in converting the odd
chips into spoons, salt-cellars and natty little bowls.
He had now been settled in his work-shop for three years, that is, ever
since his return after the completion of his tour round France, and
there was nothing for which anyone could have reproached him during this
interval except the failing we have already mentioned--that he was
rather more envious of the good fortune of his neighbour than was
altogether conducive to the welfare of his soul. But this feeling was as
yet so inoffensive, that his confessor had no need to do more than
awaken in him a sense of shame for harbouring thoughts which had, so
far, not resulted in any active crime.