“It is true,” went on Bute, “that last year he was still at his
uncle’s. But it’s very odd you’ve never met him in the woods, Sir; he
poaches in them nearly every night.”
Bute said these last words in a lower voice. He looked at me and I saw
it was essential to smile. Then Bute seemed satisfied and went on:
“Good Lord, Sir, of course you know your woods are poached. They’re so
big it doesn’t do much harm to anyone.”
I looked so far from being displeased that Bute was emboldened to go
on, and I think now he was glad to do Bocage an ill turn. He pointed
out one or two hollows in the ground in which Alcide had set his
snares, and then showed me a place in the hedge where I should be
almost certain of catching him. It was a boundary hedge and ran along
the top of a bank; there was a narrow opening in it through which
Alcide was in the habit of coming about six o’clock in the evening. At
this place Bute and I amused ourselves by stretching a copper wire
which we very neatly concealed. Then, having made me swear not to give
him away, Bute departed.
For three evenings I waited in vain. I began to think Bute had played
me a trick.... At last on the fourth evening, I heard a light step
approaching. My heart began to beat and I had a sudden revelation of
the horrible allurement of the poacher’s life.... The snare was so well
set that Alcide walked straight into it. I saw him suddenly fall flat,
with his ankle caught in the wire. He tried to save himself, fell down
again, and began struggling like a trapped rabbit. But I had hold of
him in an instant. He was a wicked looking youngster, with green eyes,
tow-coloured hair and a ferrety expression. He started kicking; then,
as I held him so tight that he was unable to move, he tried to bite;
and when that failed, he spat out the most extraordinary volley of
abuse I have ever heard. In the end I could resist no longer and burst
out laughing. At this, he stopped abruptly, looked at me, and went on
in a lower tone:
“You brute, you! You’ve hurt me something horrible.”
“Show me where.”
He slipped his stocking down over his boot and showed me his ankle,
where a slight pink mark was just visible.
“It’s nothing at all.”
He smiled a little; then, “I shall tell Father,” he said in a cunning
voice, “that it’s _you_ who set snares.”
“Why, good Heavens, it’s one of your own!”
“Sure enough, you never set that one.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You would never know how to set them as well as that. Just show me how
you did it.”
“Give me a lesson....”
That evening I came in very late for dinner; no-one knew where I was
and Marceline had been anxious. But I did not tell her I had set six
snares and so far from scolding Alcide had given him ten sous.
The next evening when I went with him to visit the snares, much to
my entertainment I found two rabbits caught in them. Of course I let
him take them. The shooting season had not yet begun. I wondered what
became of the game, as it was impossible to dispose of it openly
without the risk of getting into trouble. Alcide refused to tell me.
Finally, I learnt, through Bute again, that Heurtevent was the receiver
and his youngest son the go-between between Alcide and him. Was this
going to give me an opportunity of a deeper insight into the secrets of
that mysterious, unapproachable family? With what passionate eagerness
I set about poaching!
I met Alcide every evening; we caught great numbers of rabbits and once
even a young roe-deer which still showed some faint signs of life; I
cannot recall without horror the delight Alcide took in killing it. We
put the deer in a place of safety from which young Heurtevent could
take it away at night.
From that moment I no longer cared for going out in the day, when
there was so little to attract me in the emptied woods. I even tried
to work--melancholy, purposeless work, for I had resigned my temporary
lectureship--thankless, dreary work, from which I would be suddenly
distracted by the slightest song, the slightest sound coming from the
country outside; in every passing cry I heard an invitation. How often
I have leapt from my reading and run to the window to see--nothing pass
by! How often I have hurried out of doors.... The only attention I
found possible was that of my five senses.
But when night fell--and it was the season now when night falls
early--that was our hour. I had never before guessed its beauty; and I
stole out of doors as a thief steals in. I had trained my eyes to be
like a night-bird’s. I wondered to see the grass taller and more easily
stirred, the trees denser. The dark gave everything fresh dimensions,
made the ground look distant, lent every surface the quality of depth.
The smoothest path looked dangerous. Everywhere one felt the awakening
of creatures that lead a life of darkness.
“Where does your father think you are now?”
“In the stables looking after the cattle.”
Alcide slept there, I knew, close to the pigeons and the hens; as he
was locked in at night, he used to creep out by a hole in the roof.
There still hung about his clothes a steamy odour of fowls.
Then, as soon as the game had been collected, he would disappear
abruptly into the dark, as if down a trap-door--without a sign of
farewell, without a word of tomorrow’s rendezvous. I knew that before
returning to the farm, where the dogs recognized him and kept silent,
he used to meet the Heurtevent boy and deliver his goods. But where?
Try as I might, I was never able to find out; threats, bribes,
cunning--all failed; the Heurtevents remained inaccessible. I cannot
say where my folly showed more triumphantly. Was it in this pursuit of
a trivial mystery, which constantly eluded me--or had I even invented
the mystery by the mere force of my curiosity? But what did Alcide do
when he left me? Did he really sleep at the farm? Or did he simply
make the farmer think so? My compromising myself was utterly useless;
I merely succeeded in lessening his respect without increasing his
confidence--and it both infuriated and distressed me.
After he had disappeared, I suddenly felt myself horribly alone; I
went back across the fields, through the dew-drenched grass, my head
reeling with darkness, with lawlessness, with anarchy; dripping, muddy,
covered with leaves. In the distance there shone from the sleeping
house, guiding me like a peaceful beacon, the lamp I had left alight
in my study, where Marceline thought I was working, or the lamp of
Marceline’s own bedroom. I had persuaded her that I should not have
been able to sleep without first going out in this way. It was true; I
had taken a loathing to my bed. How greatly I should have preferred the
barn!
* * * * *
Game was plentiful that year; rabbits, hares, pheasants succeeded each
other. After three evenings, Bute, seeing that everything was going so
well, took it into his head to join us.
On the sixth of our poaching expeditions, we found only two of the
twelve snares we had set; somebody had made a clearance during the
daytime. Bute asked me for five francs to buy some more copper wire, as
ordinary wire was no use.
The next morning I had the gratification of seeing my ten snares at
Bocage’s house and I was obliged to compliment him on his zeal. What
annoyed me most was that the year before I had foolishly offered fifty
centimes for every snare that was brought in; I had therefore to give
Bocage five francs. In the meantime Bute had bought some more wire with
the five francs I had given him. Four days later, the same story! Ten
fresh snares were brought in; another five francs to Bute; another five
francs to Bocage. And as I congratulated him:
“It’s not me you must congratulate, Sir, it’s Alcide,” he said.
“No, really?” said I. Too much astonishment might have given me away. I
controlled myself.
“Yes,” went on Bocage; “it can’t be helped, Sir, I’m growing old. The
lad looks around the woods instead of me; he knows them very well; he
can tell better than I can where to look out for the snares.” “I’m
sure he can, Bocage.”
“So out of the fifty centimes you give me, I let him have twenty-five.”
“He certainly deserves it. What! Twenty snares in five days! Excellent
work! The poachers had better be careful. I wager they’ll lie low now.”
“Oh, no, Sir. The more one takes, the more one finds. Game is very dear
this year, and for the few pence it costs them ...”
I had been so completely diddled that I felt almost inclined to suspect
old Bocage himself of having a hand in the game. And what specially
vexed me in the business was not so much Alcide’s threefold traffic as
his deceitfulness. And then what did he and Bute do with the money? I
didn’t know. I should never know anything about creatures like them.
They would always lie; they would go on deceiving me for the sake of
deceiving. That evening I gave Bute ten francs instead of five and
warned him it was for the last time, that if the snares were taken
again, so much the worse, but I should not go on.
The next day up came Bocage; he looked embarrassed--which at once made
me feel even more so. What had happened? Bocage told me that Bute had
been out all night and had only come in at cockcrow. The fellow was as
drunk as a fiddler; at Bocage’s first words, he had grossly insulted
him and then flown at him and struck him....
“And I’ve come to ask, Sir,” said Bocage, “whether you authorize me,”
(he accented the word a little) “whether you _authorize_ me to dismiss
him?”
“I’ll think about it, Bocage. I’m extremely sorry he should have been
disrespectful. I’ll see ... Let me reflect a little and come again in
two hours’ time.”
Bocage went out.
To keep Bute was to be painfully lacking in consideration for Bocage;
to dismiss Bute was to ask for trouble. Well! there was nothing to be
done about it. Let come what come might! I had only myself to blame....
And as soon as Bocage came back:
“You can tell Bute we have no further use for him here,” I said.
Then I waited. What would Bocage do? What would Bute say? It was
not till evening that I heard rumours of scandal. Bute had spoken.
I guessed it at first from the shrieks I heard coming from Bocage’s
house; it was Alcide being beaten. Bocage would soon be coming up to
see me; here he was; I heard his old footstep approaching and my heart
beat even faster than when I was poaching. It was an intolerable
moment. I should have to trot out a lot of fine sentiments. I should be
obliged to take him seriously. What could I invent to explain things?
How badly I should act! I would have given anything to throw up my
part! Bocage came in. I understood absolutely nothing of what he was
saying. It was absurd; I had to make him begin all over again. In the
end, this is what I made out. He thought that Bute was the only guilty
party; the inconceivable truth had escaped him--that I could have given
Bute ten francs! What for? He was too much of a Normandy peasant to
admit the possibility of such a thing. Bute must have stolen those ten
francs. Not a doubt of it! When he said I had given them to him, he
was merely adding a lie to a theft; it was a mere invention to explain
away his theft; Bocage wasn’t the man to believe a trumped up story
like that.... There was no more talk of poaching. If Bocage had beaten
Alcide, it was only because the boy had spent the night out.
So then, I am saved! In Bocage’s eyes, at any rate, everything is all
right. What a fool that fellow Bute is! This evening, I must say, I
don’t feel much inclined to go out poaching.
I thought that everything was all over, when an hour later in came
Charles. He looked far from amiable; the bare sight of him was enough;
he struck me as even more tedious than his father. To think that last
year!...
“Well, Charles! I haven’t seen you for ever so long!”
“If you had wanted to see me, Sir, you had only to come down to the
farm. You won’t find _me_ gallivanting about the woods at nights.”
“Oh, your father has told you ...”
“My father has told me nothing, because my father knows nothing. What’s
the use of telling him at his age that his master is making a fool of
him?”
“Take care, Charles, you’re going too far....”
“Oh, all right! You’re the master--you can do as you please.”
“Charles, you know perfectly well I’ve made a fool of no-one, and if I
do as I please, it’s because it does no-one any harm but myself.”
He shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“How can one defend your interests when you attack them yourself? You
can’t protect both the keeper and the poacher at the same time.”
“Why not?”
“Because ... Oh, you’re a bit too clever for me, Sir. I just don’t like
to see my master joining up with rogues and undoing the work that other
people do for him.”
Charles spoke with more and more confidence as he went on. He held
himself almost with dignity. I noticed he had cut off his whiskers. For
that matter, what he said was sensible enough, and as I kept silence
(what could I have said?), he went on:
“You taught me last year, Sir, that one has duties to one’s
possessions. One ought to take one’s duties seriously and not play with
them ... or else one doesn’t deserve to have possessions.”
Silence.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“For this evening, yes, Sir; but if you ask me some other time, Sir, I
may perhaps tell you that my father and I are leaving La Morinière.”
And he went out, bowing very low. I hardly took time to reflect:
“Charles!... He’s right, by Jove!... Oh, if that’s what’s meant by
possessions ... Charles!...” And I ran after him, caught him up in
the dark and called out hastily, as if in a hurry to clinch my sudden
determination:
“You can tell your father that I am putting La Morinière up for sale.”
Charles bowed again gravely and went away without a word.
The whole thing is absurd! Absurd!
* * * * *
That evening, Marceline was not able to come down to dinner and sent
word to say she was unwell. Full of anxiety, I hurried up to her room.
She reassured me quickly. “It’s nothing but a cold,” she said. She
thought she had caught a chill.
“Couldn’t you have put on something warmer?”
“I put my shawl on the first moment I felt a shiver.”
“You should have put it on before you felt a shiver, not after.”
She looked at me and tried to smile.... Oh, perhaps it was because the
day had begun so badly that I felt so anguished. If she had said aloud,
“Do you really care whether I live or not?” I should not have heard the
words more clearly.
“Oh,” I thought, “without a doubt, everything in my life is falling to
pieces. Nothing that my hand grasps, can my hand hold.”
I sprang to Marceline and covered her pale face with kisses. At that,
she broke down and fell sobbing on my shoulder....
“Oh, Marceline! Marceline! Let us go away. Anywhere else but here I
shall love you as I did at Sorrento.... You have thought me changed,
perhaps? But anywhere else, you will feel that there is nothing altered
in our love.”
I had not cured her unhappiness, but how eagerly she clutched at
hope!...
It was not late in the year, but the weather was cold and damp, and the
last rosebuds were rotting unopened on the bushes. Our guests had long
since left us. Marceline was not too unwell to see to the shutting up
of the house, and five days later we left.