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by Corry Shores
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[The following is summary. Boldface, underlining, and bracketed commentary are my own. Proofreading is incomplete, so please forgive my mistakes. Text is copied from online sources (see bibliography below).]
Summary of
Alexandre Dumas
Le meneur de loups
The Wolf-Leader
0
“Introduction:”
“Ce que c’était que Mocquet, et comment cette histoire est parvenue à la connaissance de celui qui la raconte”
“Who Mocquet Was, and How This Tale Became Known to the Narrator”
Brief summary:
(0.1) The narrator finds themself later in their life and sees it is time to reflect on their early past. (We later learn that the narrator is named Alexandre and he is presented as if he were the author himself, Alexandre Dumas.) (0.2) The narrator (Alexandre) will tell us the story from his youth about “Thibault and his wolves, and of the Lord of Vez”. As a child, the narrator lived “in a little Château called Les Fossés” with his father (sometimes called “the General” / “le général”), his mother, his sister (who was normally away at school), Truffe the dog, Pierre the gardener, Hippolyte the valet, Marie the cook, and a keeper (gamekeeper) named Mocquet, also a friend of his father’s. Mocquet would tell stories about ghosts and werewolves. (0.3) Mocquet at this time of the narrator’s youth is about 45 years old. He is short and stocky and has sun-darkened skin. The narrator recalls him with “a game-bag over his shoulder, his gun in his hand, and a cutty-pipe in his mouth.” He always had the pipe in his mouth or hand. Even when it was not in his mouth, he spoke with clenched teeth. (0.4) One Day Mocquet suddenly announces that he has been “nightmared” (cauchemardé) for a week now “By Mother Durand, of Haramont, who ... is an old witch” (“la mère Durand, d’Haramont, qui ... est une vieille sorcière”) and whom Mocquet saw “riding past on her broomstick to her Witches’ Sabbath.” Mocquet explains that he once happened upon her “at midnight on the heath of Gondreville, when she was dancing round and round in her devil’s circle,” and now she is nightmaring him in revenge for this. The narrator’s father says this is a serious accusation and recommends that Mocquet find more proof before repeating it. Mocquet replies, “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?” The father and Mocquet both say they will look more into this matter. (0.5) Although the narrator’s (Alexandre’s) father said he would look into the matter of Mocquet’s being nightmared by the Old Witch Mother Durand, he did not believe this was the real cause; however, he does take the common people’s beliefs in superstitions seriously, as he knows they are widespread and deeply held. In fact, some have made real injury to others under the belief they were cursed, and given Mocquet’s seriousness about the matter and his grip on his gun, the father saw he needed to play along with Mocquet’s beliefs to gain his confidence and ensure Mocquet would consult him before doing anything drastic. Mocquet then explains that none of the folk remedies he has tried has successfully cured him of his nightmaring. For instance, he tried drinking a large bowl of hot wine before going to bed. He then says he next did what he normally does when he wants to catch a wily beast: “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.” (0.6) Mocquet explains he sets traps to catch wily beasts, which in this case is the old witch, Mother Durand, who cursed him with nightmares. Mocquet does not know how she gets into his room, but when she does, she tramples all over his chest. He says that he sets the trap on his stomach and that it is the same trap he used to try to catch a wily grey wolf. The narrator’s father noted the trap was not effective, because the wolf ate the bait and ran off. Mocquet explains that the reason the wolf succeeded was that it was the wolf of “old Thibault, the sabot-maker.” The wolf that got away is the devil according to Mocquet (“le loup noir est le diable”), and he was once black but has turned grey over a period of one hundred years, and when the hundred is completed, he turns black again, then greys with time as before. The narrator’s father asks Mocquet not to tell his son (Alexandre, the narrator himself) the story of the black wolf until his age of 15. Mocquet agrees. He then explains what happened with the large metal trap he set for Mother Durand. When she came, she wore wooden sabots. Mocquet declares that he will now “let fly at her with my gun.” The father says that he (instead) needs Mocquet to run an errand for him, namely, to deliver a letter to M. Collard over at Villers-Hellon. In the letter, he tells M. Collard that he is trying to prevent Mocquet from committing murder, so he asks M. Collard, “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”. (It is signed Alex. Dumas., which suggests the narrator is in fact supposed to be the author and this his father, and these writings the author’s own memoires, supposedly at least.) The father’s plan succeeds. Three weeks later they reunite in Antilly, and Mocquet announces, “I’ve got rid of the old mole; it seems she has no power except in her own district.” (0.7) The narrator (Alexander) takes us 12 years later to the winter of 1817-18, and he is now over 15 years old. 10 years before this time, his father dies. The family now lives “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”, but without Pierre, Hippolyte, or Mocquet in their normal roles (but it seems Mocquet was still around). The narrator speaks of his enthusiasm in his youth for sport and poaching. In the winter he shot birds and tracked wolves. On one winter day with deep snow, Mocquet invites the narrator (whom he calls “Monsieur Alexandre”) to hunt a wolf. The wolf took one of M. Destournelles’ sheep, and Mocquet tracked it to the Tillet woods. Mocquet says that he will locate its lair, and tomorrow morning they will kill it. Next they have to convince the narrator’s Mother. Mocquet assures her he will protect Alexandre, noting that he must face such dangers because he must become a man. After Alexandre departs, he sheds a tear, claiming it was from the cold, “But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying.” (0.8) Mocquet takes Alexandre the narrator to his house, feeds him, and puts him to bed, because they will rise at four the next morning to hunt the wolf. Alexandre then asks for a story, but Mocquet says there is no time. Mocquet falls asleep. The next morning at four, he awakes Alexandre, announcing he tracked the wolf to his lair, but it is hiding in the Three Oaks Covert, which 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”. A number of other gamekeepers are waiting outside the forest, while Alexandre and Mocquet with a number of other gamekeepers will surround the Covert. And hunting dogs will be used. Mocquet offers Alexandre some brandy, but Alexandre declines. Mocquet replies, “You know the proverb: ‘Leave the house empty; the devil will be there.’ [‘Maison vide, le diable y entre.’] Believe me, you had better put something into your stomach.” Alexandre requests bread crust and a glass of pignolet, “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.” Mocquet puts a cross marking on Alexandre’s bullet so that they will know if Alexandre is the one to shoot it. They set off. (0.9) The gamekeepers and huntsmen meet “on the road leading to Chavigny.” They form the plan to encircle “the Three Oaks Covert at some considerable distance from it, and then gradually advance so as to form a cordon round it.” They need to proceed carefully and quietly so not to send the wolf off running (prematurely), and the field-keeper “was holding Mocquet’s hounds in leash.” Alexandre and Mocquet are positioned in the best place to intercept the wolf when it will probably try to run off into the forest. The dogs were loosed and the keeper followed them into the covert, making noise, “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.” After cries from the keeper (including “Tonnerre de Dieu !”), the wolf suddenly rushes out toward Mocquet and Alexandre. Mocquet makes two shots at the wolf but misses both. Alexandre then shoots and seemingly hits it. The wolf keeps running, dodging bullets from the two best shots in the area, Moynat and Mildet. Their failure to hit the wolf “was an unheard of thing” given their great skill in hunting. Mocquet and Alexandre then begin to carefully follow the wolf’s tracks to look for missed bullets and if there is blood on the snow, which could confirm that Alexandre was the only one to hit the wolf. Mocquet then finds Alexandre’s bullet under intriguing circumstances. He finds the mark of the wolf’s right foot in the snow, and near it is a little hole. Mocquet reaches into the snow there and finds Alexandre’s marked (and now) flattened bullet. Mocquet explains that the wolf is the devil, and it could deflect normal bullets, but not one with a (holy) cross on it. But the bullet did not kill the wolf, Mocquet explains, “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 [Parce qu’elle n’était ni d’or ni d’argent, mon mignon, et qu’il n’y a que les balles d’or ou d’argent qui puissent entamer la peau du diable et tuer ceux qui ont fait un pacte avec lui.]” When Mocquet says that this animal is Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf, some of the huntsmen make the sign of the cross. Alexandre asks who is this wolf and Thibault. Mocquet realizes that Alexandre is now more than 15 years old and is allowed to hear the story (see section 0.6). He tells Alexandre that “Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf, is the devil” [“le loup de Thibault le sabotier, mon cher monsieur Alexandre, c’est le diable”], and that he will tell Alexandre the story when they get back to Mocquet’s house. This is the story that the narrator will now tell us in the rest of the book.
[Turning to the Narrator’s Early Life]
[The Family Home. Mocquet.]
[Mocquet’s Physical Appearance]
[Mocquet’s Cursing by the Old Witch (Sorcière) Mother Durand, Who Is “Nightmaring” Him]
[The Lack of a Cure for Mocquet’s Curse]
[The Dissipation of Mocquet’s Curse]
[Mocquet’s and Alexandre’s Embarking on a Wolf-Hunt ]
[Alexandre’s and Mocquet’s Hunt Preparations]
[Alexandre’s Shooting of the Wolf Devil and the Announcement of Mocquet’s Story About It]
Summary
[Turning to the Narrator’s Early Life]
[The narrator finds themself later in their life and sees it is time to reflect on their early past. (We later learn that the narrator is named Alexander and he is presented as if he were the author himself, Alexandre Dumas.]
[ditto]
I.
Pourquoi, pendant les vingt premières années de ma vie littéraire, c’est-à-dire de 1827 à 1847, pourquoi ma vue et mon souvenir se sont-ils si rarement reportés vers la petite ville où je suis né, vers les bois qui l’environnent, vers les villages qui l’entourent ? Pourquoi tout ce monde de ma jeunesse me semblait-il disparu et comme voilé par un nuage, tandis que l’avenir vers lequel je marchais m’apparaissait limpide et resplendissant comme ces îles magiques que Colomb et ses compagnons prirent pour des corbeilles de fleurs flottant sur la mer ?
Hélas ! c’est que, pendant les vingt premières années de la vie, on a pour guide l’espérance, et, pendant les vingt dernières, la réalité.
Du jour où, voyageur fatigué, on laisse tomber son bâton, où l’on desserre sa ceinture et où l’on s’assied au bord du chemin, de ce jour-là, on jette les yeux sur la route parcourue, et, comme c’est l’avenir qui s’embrume, on commence à regarder dans les profondeurs du passé.
Alors, près d’entrer que l’on est dans les mers de sable, on est tout étonné de voir peu à peu poindre sur la route déjà parcourue des oasis merveilleuses d’ombre et de verdure, devant lesquelles on a passé non seulement sans s’arrêter, mais presque sans les voir.
On marchait si vite dans ce temps-là ! On avait si grande hâte d’arriver où l’on n’arrive jamais… au bonheur !
C’est alors que l’on s’aperçoit que l’on a été aveugle et ingrat ; c’est alors qu’on se dit que, si l’on trouvait encore sur son chemin un de ces bosquets de verdure, on s’y arrêterait pour le reste de la vie, on y planterait sa tente pour y terminer ses jours.
Mais, comme le corps ne retourne pas en arrière, c’est la mémoire seule qui fait ce pieux pèlerinage des premiers jours et qui remonte à la source de la vie, comme ces barques légères aux voiles blanches qui remontent le cours des rivières.
Puis le corps continue son chemin ; mais le corps sans la mémoire, c’est la nuit sans l’étoile, c’est la lampe sans la flamme.
Alors le corps et la mémoire suivent chacun une route opposée.
Le corps marche au hasard vers l’inconnu.
La mémoire, brillant feu follet, voltige au-dessus des traces laissées sur le chemin ; elle seule est sûre de ne point s’égarer.
Puis, chaque oasis visitée, chaque souvenir recueilli, elle revient d’un vol rapide vers le corps de plus en plus lassé, et, comme un bourdonnement d’abeille, comme un chant d’oiseau, comme un murmure de source, elle lui raconte ce qu’elle a vu.
Et, à ce récit, l’œil du voyageur se ranime, sa bouche sourit, sa physionomie s’éclaire.
C’est que, par un bienfait de la Providence, la Providence permet que, ne pouvant pas retourner vers la jeunesse, la jeunesse revienne à lui.
Et, dès lors, il aime à raconter tout haut ce que lui dit tout bas sa mémoire.
Est-ce que la vie serait ronde comme la terre ? Est-ce que, sans s’en apercevoir, on en ferait le tour ? Est-ce qu’à mesure qu’on approche de la tombe, on se rapprocherait de son berceau ?
(1-3)
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?
(1)
[The Family Home. Mocquet.]
[The narrator (Alexandre) will tell us the story from his youth about “Thibault and his wolves, and of the Lord of Vez”. As a child, the narrator lived “in a little Château called Les Fossés” with his father (sometimes called “the General” /”le général”), his mother, his sister (who was normally away at school), Truffe the dog, Pierre the gardener, Hippolyte the valet, Marie the cook, and a keeper (gamekeeper) named Mocquet, also a friend of his father’s. Mocquet would tell stories about ghosts and werewolves.]
[ditto]
II.
Je ne sais ; mais je sais ce qui m’est arrivé, à moi.
À ma première halte sur le chemin de la vie, à mon premier regard en arrière, j’ai d’abord raconté l’histoire de Bernard et de son oncle Berthelin, puis celle d’Ange Pitou, de sa fiancée et de tante Angélique, puis celle de Conscience l’Innocent et de sa fiancée Mariette, puis celle de Catherine Blum et du père Vatrin.
Aujourd’hui, je vais vous raconter celle de Thibault le meneur de loups et du seigneur de Vez.
Maintenant, comment les événements que je vais faire passer sous vos yeux sont-ils venus à ma connaissance ?
Je vais vous le dire.
Avez-vous lu mes Mémoires et vous rappelez-vous un ami de mon père, nommé Mocquet ?
Si vous les avez lus, vous vous souvenez vaguement du personnage.
Si vous ne les avez pas lus, vous ne vous en souvenez pas du tout.
Dans l’un et l’autre cas, il est donc important que je remette Mocquet sous vos yeux.
Du plus loin qu’il me souvienne, c’est-à-dire de l’âge de trois ans, nous habitions, mon père, ma mère et moi, un petit château nommé les Fossés, situé sur les limites des départements de l’Aisne et de l’Oise, entre Haramont et Longpré.
On appelait ce petit château les Fossés ; sans doute parce qu’il était entouré d’immenses fossés remplis d’eau.
Je ne parle pas de ma sœur ; elle était en pension à Paris, et nous ne la voyions qu’un mois sur onze, c’est-à-dire aux vacances.
Le personnel de la maison, à part mon père, ma mère et moi, se composait :
1° D’un gros chien noir nommé Truffe, qui avait le privilège d’être le bienvenu partout, attendu que j’en avais fait ma monture ordinaire ;
2° D’un jardinier nommé Pierre, qui faisait pour moi, dans le jardin, ample provision de grenouilles et de couleuvres, sortes d’animaux dont j’étais fort curieux ;
3° D’un nègre, valet de chambre de mon père, nommé Hippolyte, espèce de Jocrisse noir dont les naïvetés étaient passées en proverbe, et que mon père gardait, je crois, pour compléter une série d’anecdotes qu’il eût pu opposer avec avantage aux jeannoteries de Brunet[1] ;
4° D’un garde nommé Mocquet, pour lequel j’avais une grande admiration, attendu que, tous les soirs, il avait à raconter de magnifiques histoires de revenant et loup-garou, histoires qui s’interrompaient aussitôt que paraissait le général ; c’est ainsi que l’on appelait mon père ;
5° Enfin, d’une fille de cuisine, répondant au nom de Marie.
Cette dernière se perd complètement, pour moi, dans les brouillards crépusculaires de ma vie : c’est un nom que j’ai entendu donner à une forme restée indécise dans mon esprit, mais qui, autant que je puis me le rappeler, n’avait rien de bien poétique.
Au reste, nous n’avons aujourd’hui à nous occuper que de Mocquet.
Essayons de faire connaître Mocquet au physique et au moral.
(3-5)
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 (*) 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.
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.
* See Mémoires.
[Mocquet’s Physical Appearance]
[Mocquet at this time of the narrator’s youth is about 45 years old. He is short and stocky and has sun-darkened skin. The narrator recalls him with “a game-bag over his shoulder, his gun in his hand, and a cutty-pipe in his mouth.” He always had the pipe in his mouth or hand. Even when it was not in his mouth, he spoke with clenched teeth.]
[ditto]
III.
Mocquet était au physique un homme d’une quarantaine d’années, court, trapu, solide des épaules, ferme des jarrets. Il avait la peau brunie par le hâle, de petits yeux perçants, des cheveux grisonnants, des favoris noirs passant en collier sous son cou.
Il m’apparaît au fond de mes souvenirs avec un chapeau à trois cornes, une veste verte à boutons argentés, une culotte de velours à côtes, de grandes guêtres de cuir, carnassière à l’épaule, fusil au bras, brûle-gueule à la bouche.
Arrêtons-nous un instant à ce brûle-gueule.
Ce brûle-gueule était devenu, non pas un accessoire de Mocquet, mais une partie intégrante de Mocquet.
Nul ne pouvait dire avoir jamais vu Mocquet sans son brûle-gueule.
Quand, par hasard, Mocquet ne tenait pas son brûle-gueule à la bouche, il le tenait à la main.
Ce brûle-gueule, destiné à accompagner Mocquet au milieu des plus épais fourrés, devait présenter le moins de prise possible aux corps solides qui pouvaient amener son anéantissement.
Or, l’anéantissement d’un brûle-gueule bien culotté était pour Mocquet une perte que les années seules pouvaient réparer.
Aussi la tige du brûle-gueule de Mocquet ne dépassait jamais cinq ou six lignes, et encore pouvait-on toujours, sur les cinq ou six lignes, parier pour trois lignes au moins en tuyau de plume.
Cette habitude de ne pas quitter sa pipe, laquelle avait creusé son étau entre la quatrième incisive et la première molaire de gauche, en faisant disparaître presque entièrement les deux canines, avait amené chez Mocquet une autre habitude, qui était celle de parler les dents serrées, ce qui donnait un caractère particulier d’entêtement à tout ce qu’il disait.
Or, ce caractère d’entêtement devenait encore plus remarquable lorsqu’il ôtait momentanément sa pipe de la bouche, aucun obstacle n’empêchant plus ses mâchoires de se rejoindre et les dents de se serrer, de manière à ne plus laisser passer les paroles que comme un sifflement à peine intelligible.
Voilà ce qu’était Mocquet au physique.
Les quelques lignes qui vont suivre indiqueront ce qu’il était au moral.
(5-6)
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.
(2-3)
[Mocquet’s Cursing by the Old Witch (Sorcière) Mother Durand, Who Is “Nightmaring” Him]
[One Day Mocquet suddenly announces that he has been “nightmared” (cauchemardé) for a week now “By Mother Durand, of Haramont, who ... is an old witch” (“la mère Durand, d’Haramont, qui ... est une vieille sorcière”) and whom Mocquet saw “riding past on her broomstick to her Witches’ Sabbath.” Mocquet explains that he once happened upon her “at midnight on the heath of Gondreville, when she was dancing round and round in her devil’s circle,” and now she is nightmaring him in revenge for this. The narrator’s father says this is a serious accusation and recommends that Mocquet find more proof before repeating it. Mocquet replies, “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?” The father and Mocquet both say they will look more into this matter.]
[ditto]
IV.
Un jour, Mocquet entra dès le matin dans la chambre de mon père, encore couché, et se planta devant son lit, debout et ferme comme un poteau de carrefour.
– Eh bien, Mocquet, lui demanda mon père, qu’y a-t-il, et qui me procure l’avantage de te voir de si bon matin ?
– Il y a, général, répondit gravement Mocquet, il y a que je suis cauchemardé.
Mocquet, sans s’en douter, avait enrichi la langue française d’un double verbe actif et passif.
– Tu es cauchemardé ? Oh ! oh ! fit mon père en se soulevant sur le coude, c’est grave, cela, mon garçon.
– C’est comme cela, mon général.
Et Mocquet tira son brûle-gueule de sa bouche, ce qu’il ne faisait que rarement et dans les grandes occasions.
– Et depuis quand es-tu cauchemardé, mon pauvre Mocquet ? demanda mon père.
– Depuis huit jours, général.
– Et par qui, Mocquet ?
– Oh ! je sais bien par qui, répondit Mocquet, les dents d’autant plus serrées que son brûle-gueule était à sa main, et sa main derrière son dos.
– Mais, enfin, peut-on le savoir ?
– Par la mère Durand, d’Haramont, qui, vous ne l’ignorez pas, général, est une vieille sorcière.
– Si fait, je l’ignorais, Mocquet, je te jure.
– Oh ! mais, moi, je le sais ; je l’ai vue passer à cheval sur un balai pour aller au sabbat.
– Tu l’as vue passer, Mocquet ?
– Comme je vous vois, mon général ; sans compter qu’elle a chez elle un vieux bouc noir qu’elle adore.
– Et pourquoi te cauchemarde-t-elle ?
– Pour se venger de ce que je l’ai surprise dansant sa ronde diabolique, à minuit, sur les bruyères de Gondreville.
– Mocquet, c’est une grave accusation que tu portes là, mon ami, et, avant de répéter tout haut ce que tu me dis tout bas, je te conseille d’amasser quelques preuves.
– Des preuves ! Allons donc ! est-ce que tout le monde ne sait pas bien dans le village que, dans sa jeunesse, elle a été la maîtresse de Thibault, le meneur de loups !
– Diable ! Mocquet, il faut faire attention à cela.
– J’y fais attention aussi, et elle me le payera, la vieille taupe !
La vieille taupe était une expression que Mocquet empruntait à son ami Pierre le jardinier, lequel, n’ayant pas de plus grand ennemi que les taupes, donnait le nom de taupe à tout ce qu’il détestait.
(7-8)
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.
(3)
[The Lack of a Cure for Mocquet’s Curse]
[Although the narrator’s (Alexandre’s) father said he would look into the matter of Mocquet’s being nightmared by the Old Witch Mother Durand, he did not believe this was the real cause; however, he does take the common people’s beliefs in superstitions seriously, as he knows they are widespread and deeply held. In fact, some have made real injury to others under the belief they were cursed, and given Mocquet’s seriousness about the matter and his grip on his gun, the father saw he needed to play along with Mocquet’s beliefs to gain his confidence and ensure Mocquet would consult him before doing anything drastic. Mocquet then explains that none of the folk remedies he has tried has successfully cured him of his nightmaring. For instance, he tried drinking a large bowl of hot wine before going to bed. He then says he next did what he normally does when he wants to catch a wily beast: “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.”]
[ditto]
V.
« Il faut faire attention à cela », avait dit mon père.
Ce n’est pas que mon père crût au cauchemar de Mocquet ; ce n’est pas même qu’en admettant l’existence du cauchemar, il crût que c’était la mère Durand qui cauchemardait son garde : non ; mais mon père connaissait les préjugés de nos paysans ; il savait que la croyance aux sorts, est encore fort répandue dans les campagnes. Il avait entendu raconter quelques terribles exemples de vengeance de la part d’ensorcelés qui avaient cru rompre le charme en tuant celui ou celle qui les avait charmés, et Mocquet, lorsqu’il était venu dénoncer la mère Durand à mon père, avait mis dans sa dénonciation un tel accent de menace, il avait serré les canons de son fusil de telle façon, que mon père avait cru devoir abonder dans le sens de Mocquet afin de prendre sur lui assez d’influence pour qu’il ne fît rien sans le consulter.
Aussi, croyant cette influence établie, mon père se hasarda-t-il à dire :
– Mais, avant qu’elle te le paye, mon cher Mocquet, il faudrait bien t’assurer qu’on ne peut te guérir de ton cauchemar.
– On ne peut pas, général, répondit Mocquet d’un ton assuré.
– Comment ! on ne peut pas ?
– Non ; j’ai fait l’impossible.
– Qu’as-tu fait ?
– D’abord, j’ai bu un grand bol de vin chaud avant de me coucher.
– Qui t’a conseillé ce remède-là ? C’est M. Lécosse ?
M. Lécosse était le médecin en renom de Villers-Cotterêts.
– M. Lécosse ? fit Mocquet. Allons donc ! Est-ce qu’il connaît quelque chose aux sorts ? Non, pardieu ! ce n’est pas M. Lécosse.
– Qui est-ce donc ?
– C’est le berger de Longpré.
– Mais un bol de vin chaud, animal ! tu as dû être ivre mort après l’avoir bu ?
– Le berger en a bu la moitié.
– Je comprends l’ordonnance, alors. Et le bol de vin chaud n’a rien fait ?
– Non, général. Elle est venue piétiner cette nuit-là sur ma poitrine comme si je n’avais absolument rien pris.
– Et qu’as-tu fait encore ? Car tu ne t’es pas borné, je présume, à ton bol de vin chaud ?
– J’ai fait ce que je fais quand je veux prendre une bête fausse.
Mocquet avait une phraséologie qui lui était particulière ; jamais on n’avait pu lui faire dire une bête fauve ; toutes les fois que mon père disait : « Une bête fauve », Mocquet reprenait : « Oui, général, une bête fausse. »
– Tu tiens donc à ta bête fausse ? avait dit une fois mon père.
– J’y tiens, non pas par entêtement, mon général.
– Et pourquoi donc y tiens-tu, alors ?
– Parce que, sauf votre respect, mon général, vous vous trompez.
– Comment ! je me trompe ?
– Oui, l’on ne dit pas une bête fauve, on dit une bête fausse.
– Et que veut dire une bête fausse, Mocquet ?
– Cela veut dire une bête qui ne va que la nuit ; ça veut dire une bête qui se glisse dans les pigeonniers, pour étrangler les pigeons, comme les fouines ; dans les poulaillers pour étrangler les poules, comme les renards ; dans les bergeries pour étrangler les moutons, comme les loups ; ça veut dire une bête qui trompe, une bête fausse, enfin.
La définition était si logique, qu’il n’y avait rien à répondre.
Aussi mon père ne répondit-il rien, et Mocquet, triomphant, continua-t-il d’appeler les bêtes fauves des bêtes fausses, ne comprenant rien à l’entêtement de mon père, qui continuait d’appeler des bêtes fausses des bêtes fauves.
Voilà pourquoi, à la question de mon père : « Et qu’as-tu fait encore ? » Mocquet avait répondu : « J’ai fait ce que je fais quand je veux prendre une bête fausse. »
Nous avons interrompu le dialogue pour donner l’explication que l’on vient de lire ; mais entre Mocquet et mon père, qui n’avait pas besoin d’explication, le dialogue continuait.
(8-11)
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.
(4)
[The Dissipation of Mocquet’s Curse]
[Mocquet explains he sets traps to catch wily beasts, which in this case is the old witch, Mother Durand, who cursed him with nightmares. Mocquet does not know how she gets into his room, but when she does, she tramples all over his chest. He says that he sets the trap on his stomach and that it is the same trap he used to try to catch a wily grey wolf. The narrator’s father noted the trap was not effective, because the wolf ate the bait and ran off. Mocquet explains that the reason the wolf succeeded was that it was the wolf of “old Thibault, the sabot-maker.” The wolf that got away is the devil according to Mocquet (“le loup noir est le diable”), and he was once black but has turned grey over a period of one hundred years, and when the hundred is completed, he turns black again, then greys with time as before. The narrator’s father asks Mocquet not to tell his son (Alexandre, the narrator himself) the story of the black wolf until his age of 15. Mocquet agrees. He then explains what happened with the large metal trap he set for Mother Durand. When she came, she wore wooden sabots. Mocquet declares that he will now “let fly at her with my gun.” The father says that he (instead) needs Mocquet to run an errand for him, namely, to deliver a letter to M. Collard over at Villers-Hellon. In the letter, he tells M. Collard that he is trying to prevent Mocquet from committing murder, so he asks M. Collard, “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”. (It is signed Alex. Dumas., which suggests the narrator is in fact supposed to be the author and this his father, and these writings the author’s own memoires, supposedly at least.) The father’s plan succeeds. Three weeks later they reunite in Antilly, and Mocquet announces, “I’ve got rid of the old mole; it seems she has no power except in her own district.”]
[ditto]
VI.
– Et que fais-tu, Mocquet, quand tu veux prendre une bête fauve ? demanda mon père.
– Général, je prépare un pierge.
– Comment ! tu as préparé un piège pour prendre la mère Durand ?
Mocquet n’aimait pas que l’on prononçât les mots autrement que lui. Aussi reprit-il :
– J’ai préparé un pierge pour la mère Durand, oui, général.
– Et où l’as-tu mis, ton pierge ? À ta porte ?
Mon père, comme on le voit, faisait des concessions.
– Ah bien, oui, à ma porte ! dit Mocquet. Est-ce qu’elle passe par ma porte, la vieille sorcière ! Elle entre dans ma chambre que je ne sais seulement point par où.
– Par la cheminée, peut-être ?
– Il n’y en a point ; d’ailleurs, je ne la vois que quand je la sens.
– Tu la vois ?
– Comme je vous vois, général.
– Et que fait-elle ?
– Oh ! quant à cela, rien de bon ; elle me piétine sur la poitrine : vlan, vlan, vlan !
– Enfin, où as-tu mis le piège ?
– Le pierge ! Je l’ai mis sur mon estomac, donc !
– Et quel pierge as-tu mis ?
– Oh ! un fameux pierge !
– Lequel ?
– Celui que j’avais préparé pour prendre le loup gris qui venait étrangler les moutons de M. Destournelles.
– Pas si fameux, ton pierge, Mocquet, puisque le loup gris a mangé ton appât et ne s’est pas pris.
– Il ne s’est pas pris, vous savez bien pourquoi, général.
– Non.
– Il ne s’est pas pris parce que c’est le loup noir de Thibault le sabotier.
– Ce n’est pas le loup noir de Thibault le sabotier, Mocquet, puisque tu avoues toi-même que le loup qui venait étrangler les moutons de M. Destournelles était gris.
– Il est gris aujourd’hui, mon général ; mais, du temps de Thibault le sabotier, c’est-à-dire il y a trente ans, il était noir ; à preuve, mon général, c’est qu’il y a trente ans, j’étais noir comme un corbeau, et qu’à présent, je suis gris comme le Docteur.
Le Docteur était un chat auquel j’ai essayé, dans mes Mémoires, de donner une célébrité relative, et qu’on appelait le Docteur à cause de la magnifique fourrure dont la nature l’avait doué.
– Oui, dit mon père, je connais ton histoire de Thibault le sabotier. Mais, si le loup noir est le diable, comme tu dis, Mocquet, il ne doit pas changer.
– Si fait, mon général ; seulement, il met cent ans à devenir tout blanc, et, à chaque minuit de la centième année, il redevient noir comme un charbon.
– Je passe condamnation, Mocquet ; seulement, je te prie de ne pas raconter cette belle histoire-là à mon fils avant qu’il ait quinze ans au moins.
– Pourquoi cela, mon général ?
– Parce qu’il est inutile de lui farcir l’esprit de pareilles sottises avant qu’il soit assez grand pour se moquer des loups, qu’ils soient blancs, gris ou noirs.
– C’est bien, mon général, on ne lui en parlera point.
– Continue.
– Où en étions-nous, mon général ?
– Nous en étions au pierge que tu as mis sur ton estomac, et tu disais que c’était un fameux pierge.
– Ah ! ma foi, oui, mon général, que c’en était un fameux pierge ! Il pesait bien dix livres ; qu’est-ce que je dis donc ! quinze livres au moins, avec sa chaîne ! La chaîne, je l’avais passée à mon poignet.
– Et cette nuit-là ?
– Oh ! cette nuit-là, ç’a été bien pis ! Ordinairement, c’était avec des galoches qu’elle me pétrissait la poitrine ; cette nuit-là, elle est venue avec des sabots.
– Et elle vient ainsi… ?
– Toutes les nuits que le Bon Dieu fait ; aussi j’en maigris : vous voyez bien, général, que j’en deviens étique ; mais, ce matin, j’ai pris mon parti.
– Et quel parti as-tu pris, Mocquet ?
– J’ai pris le parti de lui flanquer un coup de fusil, donc !
– C’est un parti sage. Et quand dois-tu le mettre à exécution ?
– Oh ! ce soir ou demain, général.
– Diable ! et moi qui voulais t’envoyer à Villers-Hellon.
– Ça ne fait rien, général. Était-ce pressé, ce que j’allais y faire ?
– Très pressé !
– Eh bien, je puis aller à Villers-Hellon – il n’y a que quatre lieues en passant sous bois – et être revenu ce soir ; ça ne fait que huit lieues ; nous en avons avalé bien d’autres en chassant, général.
– C’est dit, Mocquet ; je vais te donner une lettre pour M. Collard, et tu partiras.
– Et je partirai, oui, général.
Mon père se leva et écrivit à M. Collard. La lettre était conçue en ces termes :
» Je vous envoie mon imbécile de garde, que vous connaissez ; il s’imagine qu’une vieille femme le cauchemarde toute la nuit, et, pour en finir avec son vampire, il veut tout simplement la tuer. Mais, comme la justice pourrait trouver mauvaise cette manière de se traiter soi-même des étouffements, je vous l’envoie sous un prétexte quelconque. De votre côté, sous le prétexte qu’il vous plaira, vous l’enverrez chez Danré, de Vouty, lequel l’enverra chez Dulauloy, lequel, avec ou sans prétexte, l’enverra au diable, s’il veut.
» En somme, il faut que sa tournée dure au moins une quinzaine de jours. Dans quinze jours, nous aurons déménagé et nous habiterons Antilly, et alors, comme il ne sera plus dans le voisinage de Haramont, et que, selon toute probabilité, son cauchemar le quittera en route, la mère Durand pourra dormir tranquille ; ce que je ne lui conseillerais pas de faire si Mocquet demeurait dans les environs.
» Il vous porte une douzaine de bécassines et un lièvre que nous avons tués hier en chassant dans les marais de Vallue.
» Mille tendres souvenirs à votre belle Herminie et mille baisers à votre chère petite Caroline.
» Votre ami,
» Alex. Dumas. »
Mocquet partit une heure après la lettre écrite, et, au bout de trois semaines, vint nous rejoindre à Antilly.
– Eh bien, lui demanda mon père en le voyant gaillard et bien portant, eh bien, la mère Durand ?
– Eh bien, mon général, répondit Mocquet tout joyeux, elle m’a quitté, la vieille taupe ; il paraît qu’elle n’avait de pouvoir que dans le canton.
(11-15)
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.”
(5-6)
[Mocquet’s and Alexandre’s Embarking on a Wolf-Hunt ]
[The narrator (Alexander) takes us 12 years later to the winter of 1817-18, and he is now over 15 years old. 10 years before this time, his father dies. The family now lives “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”, but without Pierre, Hippolyte, or Mocquet in their normal roles (but it seems Mocquet was still around). The narrator speaks of his enthusiasm in his youth for sport and poaching. In the winter he shot birds and tracked wolves. On one winter day with deep snow, Mocquet invites the narrator (whom he calls “Monsieur Alexandre”) to hunt a wolf. The wolf took one of M. Destournelles’ sheep, and Mocquet tracked it to the Tillet woods. Mocquet says that he will locate its lair, and tomorrow morning they will kill it. Next they have to convince the narrator’s Mother. Mocquet assures her he will protect Alexandre, noting that he must face such dangers because he must become a man. After Alexandre departs, he sheds a tear, claiming it was from the cold, “But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying.”]
[ditto]
Douze ans s’étaient écoulés depuis le cauchemar de Mocquet. J’en avais quinze passés.
C’était dans l’hiver de 1817 à 1818.
Hélas ! depuis dix ans, mon père était mort.
Nous n’avions plus de jardinier Pierre, plus de valet de chambre Hippolyte, plus de garde Mocquet.
Nous n’habitions plus le château les Fossés ni la villa d’Antilly ; nous habitions une petite maison sur la place de Villers-Cotterêts, en face de la fontaine, où ma mère tenait un bureau de tabac.
Elle y joignait un débit de poudre de chasse, de plomb et de balles.
Tout jeune que j’étais, j’étais déjà, comme je l’ai raconté dans mes Mémoires, un chasseur enragé.
Seulement, je ne chassais, dans l’acception du mot, que quand mon cousin, M. Deviolaine, inspecteur de la forêt de Villers-Cotterêts, voulait bien me demander à ma mère.
Le reste du temps, je braconnais.
J’avais, pour ce double exercice de la chasse et du braconnage, un charmant fusil à un coup, qui avait appartenu à la princesse Borghèse, et sur lequel son chiffre était gravé.
Mon père me l’avait donné comme j’étais tout enfant, et, à la vente qui avait suivi sa mort, j’avais tant réclamé mon fusil, qu’on ne l’avait pas vendu avec les autres armes, les chevaux et les voitures.
Le temps de mes joies était l’hiver.
L’hiver, la terre se couvre de neige, et les oiseaux, embarrassés de trouver leur nourriture, viennent là où on leur jette du grain.
J’avais quelques vieux amis de mon père, possédant de beaux et grands jardins, qui me permettaient alors de faire dans ces jardins la chasse aux oiseaux.
Je balayais la neige, je semais une traînée de grain, et, d’un abri quelconque, ménagé à demi-portée de fusil, je faisais feu, tuant quelquefois six, huit, dix oiseaux d’un seul coup.
Puis, quand la neige persistait, il y avait une autre espérance : c’est que l’on détournerait un loup.
Le loup détourné appartient à tout le monde.
C’est un ennemi public, un assassin mis hors la loi. Chacun peut tirer dessus. Alors, il ne faut pas demander si, malgré les cris de ma mère, qui redoutait pour moi un double danger, il ne faut pas demander, dis-je, si je prenais mon fusil et si j’étais le premier au rendez-vous.
L’hiver de 1817 à 1818 avait été rude.
Il était tombé un pied de neige ; il avait gelé par-dessus, de sorte que la neige tenait bon depuis une quinzaine de jours.
Et cependant on n’entendait parler de rien.
Un soir, vers quatre heures de l’après-midi, Mocquet vint à la maison.
Il venait faire sa provision de poudre.
Tout en faisant sa provision de poudre, il me fit un signe de l’œil. Quand il sortit, je le suivis.
– Eh bien, Mocquet, lui demandai-je, qu’y a-t-il ?
– Vous ne devinez pas, monsieur Alexandre ?
– Non, Mocquet.
– Vous ne devinez pas que, si je viens acheter de la poudre chez madame la générale, au lieu d’en acheter tout simplement à Haramont, c’est-à-dire si je fais une lieue au lieu d’un quart de lieue, c’est que j’ai une partie à vous proposer ?
– Ô mon bon Mocquet ! Et laquelle ?
– Il y a un loup, monsieur Alexandre.
– Bah ! vraiment ?
– Il a enlevé cette nuit un mouton à M. Destournelles, et je l’ai suivi jusqu’au bois du Tillet.
– Eh bien ?
– Eh bien, cette nuit, je le reverrai bien certainement, je le détournerai, et, demain matin, nous lui ferons son affaire.
– Oh, quel bonheur !
– Seulement, il faut la permission…
– La permission de qui, Mocquet ?
– La permission de la générale.
– Eh bien, rentre, Mocquet ; nous allons la lui demander.
Ma mère nous regardait à travers les vitres. Elle se doutait bien qu’il se tramait quelque complot.
Nous rentrâmes.
– Ah ! Mocquet, dit-elle, tu n’es guère raisonnable, va !
– En quoi ça, madame la générale ? demanda Mocquet.
– Eh ! de lui monter la tête comme tu fais ; il n’y pense déjà que trop, à ta maudite chasse !
– Dame ! madame la générale, ça, c’est comme les chiens de bonne race : son père était chasseur, il est chasseur, son fils sera chasseur ; faut en prendre votre parti.
– Et s’il lui arrive malheur ?
– Avec moi, malheur ? Malheur avec Mocquet ? Allons donc ! J’en réponds corps pour corps, de M. Alexandre. Lui arriver malheur, à lui, au fils du général ? Mais jamais ! jamais ! au grand jamais !
Ma pauvre mère secoua la tête. J’allai me pendre à son cou.
– Ma petite mère, lui dis-je, je t’en prie.
– Mais tu lui chargeras son fusil, Mocquet ?
– Soyez tranquille ! Soixante grains de poudre, pas un de plus, pas un de moins, et une balle de vingt à la livre.
– Tu ne le quitteras pas ?
– Pas plus que son ombre.
– Tu le placeras près de toi ?
– Entre mes jambes.
– Mocquet ! c’est à toi seul que je le confie.
– Et on vous le rendra intact. Allons, monsieur Alexandre, prenez vos cliques et vos claques, et partons : la générale le permet.
– Comment ! tu l’emmènes ce soir, Mocquet ?
– Bon ! demain, il serait trop tard pour le venir chercher ; le loup, c’est au point du jour que cela se chasse.
– Comment ! c’est pour chasser le loup que tu me le demandes ?
– N’avez-vous pas peur que le loup ne vous le mange ?
– Mocquet ! Mocquet !
– Eh ! quand je vous dis que je réponds de tout !
– Mais où couchera-t-il, le malheureux enfant ?
– Chez le père Mocquet, donc ! Il aura un bon matelas à terre, des draps blancs comme ceux que le Bon Dieu a étendus sur la plaine, et deux bonnes couvertures chaudes ; il ne s’enrhumera pas, allez !
– Eh ! non, mère, sois donc tranquille ! Allons, Mocquet, je suis prêt.
– Et tu ne m’embrasses seulement pas, malheureux enfant !
– Oh ! si fait, petite mère, et plutôt deux fois qu’une !
Et je me jetai au cou de ma mère, que j’étouffais à force de la serrer dans mes bras.
– Et quand te reverra-t-on ?
– Oh ! ne soyez pas inquiète s’il ne revient que demain soir.
– Comment, demain soir ! Et tu me disais au point du jour !
– Au point du jour pour le loup ; mais, si nous faisons buisson creux, il faudra bien lui faire tirer un ou deux canards sauvages dans les marais de Vallue, à cet enfant.
– Bon ! tu vas me le noyer !
– Cré nom ! dit Mocquet, si je n’avais pas l’honneur de parler à la femme de mon général, je vous dirais…
– Quoi, Mocquet, que dirais-tu ?
– Que vous ne ferez qu’une poule mouillée de votre fils. Mais, si la mère du général avait été derrière lui à le tirer par les basques de son habit comme vous êtes derrière cet enfant là, il n’aurait jamais tant seulement traversé la mer pour venir en France.
– Tu as raison, Mocquet, emmène-le ; je suis folle.
Et ma mère se retourna pour essuyer une larme.
Larme de mère, diamant du cœur, plus précieux qu’une perle d’Ophir.
Je la vis couler.
J’allai à la pauvre femme ; je lui dis tout bas :
– Si tu veux, mère, je resterai.
– Non, va, va, mon enfant, dit-elle ; Mocquet a raison : il faut qu’un jour tu sois un homme.
Je l’embrassai encore une dernière fois.
Puis j’allai rejoindre Mocquet, déjà en chemin.
Au bout de cent pas, je me retournai.
Ma mère s’était avancée jusqu’au milieu de la rue pour me suivre plus longtemps des yeux.
Ce fut mon tour d’essuyer une larme au bord de ma paupière.
– Bon ! me dit Mocquet, voilà que vous pleurez, vous aussi, monsieur Alexandre !
– Allons donc, Mocquet ! c’est de froid.
Vous qui m’aviez donné cette larme, ô mon Dieu, vous savez bien, n’est-ce pas, que ce n’était pas de froid que je pleurais.
(15-20)
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.
(6-8)
[Alexandre’s and Mocquet’s Hunt Preparations]
[Mocquet takes Alexandre the narrator to his house, feeds him, and puts him to bed, because they will rise at four the next morning to hunt the wolf. Alexandre then asks for a story, but Mocquet says there is no time. Mocquet falls asleep. The next morning at four, he awakes Alexandre, announcing he tracked the wolf to his lair, but it is hiding in the Three Oaks Covert, which 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”. A number of other gamekeepers are waiting outside the forest, while Alexandre and Mocquet with a number of other gamekeepers will surround the Covert. And hunting dogs will be used. Mocquet offers Alexandre some brandy, but Alexandre declines. Mocquet replies, “You know the proverb: ‘Leave the house empty; the devil will be there.’ [‘Maison vide, le diable y entre.’] Believe me, you had better put something into your stomach.” Alexandre requests bread crust and a glass of pignolet, “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.” Mocquet puts a cross marking on Alexandre’s bullet so that they will know if Alexandre is the one to shoot it. They set off.]
[ditto]
VIII.
Nous arrivâmes chez Mocquet à la nuit noire.
Nous soupâmes d’une omelette au lard et d’une gibelotte de lapin.
Puis Mocquet me fit mon lit. Il avait tenu parole à ma mère : j’avais un bon matelas, deux draps blancs et deux bonnes couvertures bien chaudes.
– Allons ! me dit Mocquet, fourrez-vous là-dedans et dormez ; il est probable que demain, à quatre heures du matin, il faudra se mettre en campagne.
– À l’heure que tu voudras, Mocquet.
– Oui, oui, vous êtes matinal le soir, et, demain matin, il faudra vous jeter une potée d’eau fraîche dans votre lit pour vous faire lever.
– Je te le permets, Mocquet, si tu es obligé de m’appeler deux fois.
– Allons ! on verra cela.
– Mais tu es donc bien pressé de dormir, Mocquet ?
– Eh ! que voulez-vous donc que je fasse à cette heure ?
– Il me semble, Mocquet, que tu pourrais bien me raconter une de ces histoires qui m’amusaient tant quand j’étais petit.
– Et qui est-ce qui se lèvera pour moi à deux heures du matin ; si je vous conte des histoires jusqu’à minuit ? M. le curé ?
– Tu as raison, Mocquet.
– C’est bien heureux !
Je me déshabillai et je me couchai.
Mocquet se jeta tout habillé sur son lit.
Au bout de cinq minutes, Mocquet ronflait comme une basse. Je fus plus de deux heures à me tourner et à me retourner dans mon lit sans pouvoir venir à bout de m’endormir.
Que de nuits blanches j’ai passées la veille des ouvertures de chasse !
Enfin, vers minuit, la fatigue l’emporta.
À quatre heures du matin, une sensation de froid me réveilla en sursaut. J’ouvris les yeux.
Mocquet avait rejeté la couverture sur le pied de mon lit et se tenait debout auprès, les deux mains appuyées sur son fusil et le brûle-gueule à la bouche.
Sa figure rayonnait à la lueur de sa pipe qui, à chaque aspiration de son souffle, éclairait son visage.
– Eh bien, Mocquet ? lui dis-je.
– Eh bien, il est détourné.
– Le loup ? Et qui est-ce qui l’a détourné ?
– Ce pauvre Mocquet.
– Ah ! bravo !
– Seulement, devinez où il est allé se loger ? En voilà un loup qui est bon enfant !
– Où il est allé se loger, Mocquet ?
– Oh ! je vous le donne en cent ! Dans la remise des Trois-Chênes.
– Eh bien, mais il est pincé, alors ?
– Pardieu !
La remise des Trois-Chênes est un bouquet d’arbres et de fourrés d’environ deux arpents situé au milieu de la plaine de Largny, à cinq cents pas à peu près de la forêt.
– Et les gardes ? continuai-je.
– Prévenus, répondit Mocquet ; ils sont à la lisière de la forêt, les fins tireurs : Moynat, Mildet, Vatrin, Lafeuille, ce qu’il y a de mieux enfin. De notre côté, nous cernons la remise avec M. Charpentier, de Vallue, M. Hochedez, de Largny, M. Destournelles, des Fossés, vous et moi ; on lâchera les chiens, le garde champêtre les appuiera, et enlevez, c’est pesé !
– Mocquet, tu me mettras au bon endroit.
– Puisque je vous dis que vous serez près de moi ; seulement, il faudrait vous lever.
– Tu as raison, Mocquet. Brrou !
– Allons, on va avoir pitié de votre jeunesse et vous mettre un fagot dans la cheminée.
– Mocquet, je n’osais pas te le demander ; mais, si tu faisais cela, parole d’honneur, tu serais bien gentil.
Mocquet alla prendre dans le chantier une brassée de bois qu’il jeta dans la cheminée, en la tassant du pied ; puis il introduisit au milieu des sarments une allumette enflammée.
À l’instant même, le feu pétilla et monta joyeux et clair dans la cheminée.
J’allai m’asseoir sur l’escabeau du foyer et je m’habillai.
Ce fut une toilette vivement faite, je vous en réponds.
Mocquet lui-même en fut tout ébahi.
– Allons, dit-il, une goutte de parfait-amour, et en route !
Et Mocquet remplit deux petits verres d’une liqueur jaunâtre que je n’eus pas même besoin de goûter pour la reconnaître.
– Tu sais que je ne bois jamais d’eau-de-vie, Mocquet.
– Ah ! vous êtes bien le fils de votre père, vous ! Eh bien, mais qu’allez-vous donc prendre, alors ?
– Rien, Mocquet, rien.
– Vous connaissez le proverbe : « Maison vide, le diable y entre. » Mettez-vous quelque chose sur l’estomac, croyez-moi, tandis que, je vais charger votre fusil ; car il faut bien lui tenir parole, à cette pauvre mère.
– Eh bien, Mocquet, une croûte de pain et un verre de pignolet.
Le pignolet est un petit vin qui se récolte dans les pays non vignobles.
On dit proverbialement qu’il faut être trois hommes pour le boire, l’homme qui le boit et les deux hommes qui le tiennent.
J’étais assez habitué au pignolet et je le buvais à moi seul. J’avalai donc mon verre de pignolet, tandis que Mocquet chargeait mon fusil.
– Que fais-tu donc, Mocquet ? lui demandai-je.
– Une croix à votre balle, répondit-il. Comme vous serez près de moi, nous pouvons tirer ensemble, et – pas pour la prime, je sais bien que vous me l’abandonnerez, mais pour la gloriole, – si le loup tombe, il sera bon de voir qui l’aura tué. Ainsi, visez juste.
– Je ferai de mon mieux, Mocquet.
– Voilà votre fusil chargé aux oiseaux. En route, alors, et le canon en l’air.
Je suivis la prudente recommandation du vieux garde et nous partîmes.
(20-24)
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.”
(8-9)
[Alexandre’s Shooting of the Wolf Devil and the Announcement of Mocquet’s Story About It]
[The gamekeepers and huntsmen meet “on the road leading to Chavigny.” They form the plan to encircle “the Three Oaks Covert at some considerable distance from it, and then gradually advance so as to form a cordon round it.” They need to proceed carefully and quietly so not to send the wolf off running (prematurely), and the field-keeper “was holding Mocquet’s hounds in leash.” Alexandre and Mocquet are positioned in the best place to intercept the wolf when it will probably try to run off into the forest. The dogs were loosed and the keeper followed them into the covert, making noise, “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.” After cries from the keeper (including “Tonnerre de Dieu !”), the wolf suddenly rushes out toward Mocquet and Alexandre. Mocquet makes two shots at the wolf but misses both. Alexandre then shoots and seemingly hits it. The wolf keeps running, dodging bullets from the two best shots in the area, Moynat and Mildet. Their failure to hit the wolf “was an unheard of thing” given their great skill in hunting. Mocquet and Alexandre then begin to carefully follow the wolf’s tracks to look for missed bullets and if there is blood on the snow, which could confirm that Alexandre was the only one to hit the wolf. Mocquet then finds Alexandre’s bullet under intriguing circumstances. He finds the mark of the wolf’s right foot in the snow, and near it is a little hole. Mocquet reaches into the snow there and finds Alexandre’s marked (and now) flattened bullet. Mocquet explains that the wolf is the devil, and it could deflect normal bullets, but not one with a (holy) cross on it. But the bullet did not kill the wolf, Mocquet explains, “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 [Parce qu’elle n’était ni d’or ni d’argent, mon mignon, et qu’il n’y a que les balles d’or ou d’argent qui puissent entamer la peau du diable et tuer ceux qui ont fait un pacte avec lui.]” When Mocquet says that this animal is Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf, some of the huntsmen make the sign of the cross. Alexandre asks who is this wolf and Thibault. Mocquet realizes that Alexandre is now more than 15 years old and is allowed to hear the story (see section 0.6). He tells Alexandre that “Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf, is the devil” [“le loup de Thibault le sabotier, mon cher monsieur Alexandre, c’est le diable”], and that he will tell Alexandre the story when they get back to Mocquet’s house. This is the story that the narrator will now tell us in the rest of the book.]
[ditto]
IX.
Le rendez-vous était à la route de Chavigny.
Nous trouvâmes là nos gardes et une partie de nos chasseurs.
Au bout de dix minutes, ceux qui manquaient encore nous avaient rejoints.
À cinq heures moins quelques minutes, on se trouva au complet.
On tint conseil.
Il fut convenu que l’on envelopperait la remise des Trois-Chênes à grande distance, et que l’on se rapprocherait peu à peu de manière à la cerner.
Le mouvement devait se faire le plus silencieusement possible, l’habitude bien connue de messieurs les loups étant de décamper au moindre bruit.
Chacun devait étudier avec soin le chemin qu’il parcourrait, afin de s’assurer si le loup était toujours dans la remise. Le garde champêtre tenait les chiens de Mocquet couplés.
Chacun prit sa place à l’endroit de la remise où sa marche le conduisit.
Le hasard fit que, Mocquet et moi, nous nous trouvâmes placés sur la face nord de la garenne, c’est-à-dire sur celle qui était parallèle à la forêt. Comme l’avait dit Mocquet, nous étions à la meilleure place.
Il était probable que le loup chercherait à gagner la forêt, et, par conséquent, déboucherait de notre côté.
Nous nous adossâmes chacun contre un chêne, à cinquante pas de distance l’un de l’autre.
Puis, sans bouger, retenant notre souffle, nous attendîmes.
Les chiens furent découplés sur la face opposée à celle que nous gardions.
Ils donnèrent deux coups de gueule et se turent.
Le garde champêtre entra derrière eux dans la remise, frappant les arbres avec son bâton et criant :
– Tayaut !
Mais les chiens, l’œil hors de la tête, les babines relevées, le poil hérissé, semblaient fichés en terre.
Il n’y eut pas moyen de leur faire faire un pas de plus.
– Hé ! Mocquet ! cria le garde champêtre, il paraît que c’est un crâne loup, car Rocador et Tombelle n’en veulent pas reprendre.
Mocquet se garda bien de répondre ; le bruit de sa voix eût indiqué à l’animal la direction où il trouverait des ennemis.
Le garde champêtre continua d’avancer en frappant contre les arbres. Les deux chiens le suivaient, mais prudemment, par-derrière, pas à pas, sans abois, et se contentant de gronder.
– Tonnerre de Dieu ! cria tout à coup le garde champêtre, j’ai manqué lui marcher sur la queue ! Au loup ! au loup ! au loup ! À toi, Mocquet ! À toi !
Et, en effet, quelque chose venait à nous comme une balle. L’animal s’élança hors de la remise, rapide comme un éclair, juste entre moi et Mocquet.
C’était un énorme loup, presque blanc de vieillesse.
Mocquet lui envoya ses deux coups de fusil.
Je vis ses deux balles ricocher dans la neige.
– Mais tirez donc ! cria-t-il ; tirez donc !
Seulement alors, j’épaulai, je suivis un instant l’animal et fis feu. Le loup fit un mouvement comme pour mordre son épaule.
– Il en tient ! il en tient ! cria Mocquet ; l’enfant a mis le bout au droit ! Aux innocents les mains pleines.
Cependant le loup continuait sa course et piquait droit sur Moynat et Mildet, les deux meilleurs tireurs de toute l’inspection. Tous les deux firent feu de leur premier coup dans la plaine, de leur second coup sous bois. On vit les deux premières balles se croiser et sillonner la neige en la faisant rejaillir. De ces deux premières balles le loup n’avait pas été touché, mais sans doute il était tombé sous les autres.
Il était inouï que les deux gardes qui venaient de faire feu manquassent leur coup.
J’avais vu tuer à Moynat dix-sept bécassines de suite.
J’avais vu Mildet couper en deux un écureuil qui sautait d’un arbre à l’autre.
Les gardes avaient suivi le loup sous bois. Nous regardions, haletants, l’endroit où ils avaient disparu.
Nous les vîmes reparaître l’oreille basse et hochant la tête.
– Eh bien ?… cria Mocquet interrogeant les tireurs.
– Bon ! fit Mildet avec un mouvement de bras, il est à Taille-Fontaine maintenant.
– À Taille-Fontaine ! fit Mocquet tout ébahi. Ah çà ! mais ils l’ont donc manqué, les maladroits ?
– Pourquoi pas ? Tu l’as bien manqué, toi !
Mocquet secoua la tête.
– Allons, allons, il y a quelque diablerie là-dessous, dit-il. Que je l’aie manqué, c’est étonnant ; cependant, c’est encore possible. Mais que Moynat l’ait manqué de ses deux coups, non, je dirai non.
– C’est pourtant comme cela, mon pauvre Mocquet.
– D’ailleurs, vous l’avez touché, vous, me dit-il.
– Moi !… Es-tu sûr ?
– C’est honteux à dire pour nous autres ; mais, aussi vrai que je m’appelle Mocquet de mon nom de famille, vous l’avez touché, voyez-vous !
– Eh bien, mais, si je l’ai touché, c’est bien facile à voir, Mocquet. Il fera sang. Courons, Mocquet, courons !
Et je joignis l’exemple au précepte.
– Non, pardié ! ne courons pas, cria Mocquet en serrant les dents et en frappant du pied ; allons doucement, au contraire, que nous sachions à quoi nous en tenir.
– Allons doucement, mais allons.
Et il se mit à suivre pas à pas la trace du loup.
– Ah ! pardieu ! lui dis-je, il n’y a pas de crainte de la perdre, sa passée, elle est visible.
– Oui, mais ce n’est pas cela que je cherche.
– Que cherches-tu donc ?
– Vous le saurez tout à l’heure.
Les chasseurs qui enveloppaient avec nous la remise nous avaient rejoints et nous suivaient par-derrière, le garde champêtre leur racontant ce qui venait de se passer. Mocquet et moi, nous suivions les pas du loup, profondément empreints sur la neige.
Arrivés à l’endroit où l’animal avait essuyé mon feu :
– Eh bien, tu vois, Mocquet, lui dis-je, je l’ai manqué !
– Et pourquoi cela, l’avez-vous manqué ?
– Dame ! puisqu’il ne fait pas sang.
– Alors, cherchez la trace de votre balle sur la neige.
Je m’orientai et m’écartai dans la direction que ma balle avait dû suivre, en supposant qu’elle n’eût pas touché le loup.
Je fis un demi-kilomètre inutilement.
Je pris le parti de rabattre sur Mocquet.
Il faisait signe aux gardes de venir le rejoindre.
– Eh bien, me dit-il, et la balle ?
– Je ne l’ai pas trouvée.
– Alors, j’ai été plus heureux que vous ; je l’ai trouvée, moi.
– Comment ! tu l’as trouvée ?
– Oh ! faites le tour et venez derrière moi.
J’obéis à la manœuvre commandée. Les chasseurs de la remise s’étaient rapprochés. Mais Mocquet leur avait indiqué une ligne qu’ils ne devaient pas franchir. Les gardes de la forêt se rapprochaient à leur tour.
– Eh bien ? leur demanda Mocquet.
– Manqué, dirent ensemble Mildet et Moynat.
– J’ai bien vu que vous l’aviez manqué dans la plaine ; mais sous bois… ?
– Manqué aussi.
– Vous êtes sûrs ?
– On a retrouvé les deux balles chacune dans le tronc d’un arbre.
– C’est à n’y pas croire, dit Vatrin.
– Non, c’est à n’y pas croire, reprit Mocquet, et cependant je vais vous montrer quelque chose de plus incroyable encore.
– Montre ?
– Regardez là, sur la neige ; que voyez-vous ?
– La passée d’un loup, pardieu !
– Et auprès de sa patte droite, – là, – qu’y a-t-il ?
– Un petit trou.
– Eh bien, vous ne comprenez pas ?
Les gardes se regardèrent avec étonnement.
– Comprenez-vous à cette heure ? reprit Mocquet.
– Impossible ! dirent les gardes.
– C’est pourtant comme cela, et la preuve, je vais vous la donner.
Mocquet plongea sa main dans la neige, chercha un instant, et avec un cri de triomphe tira de la neige une balle aplatie.
– Tiens ! dis-je… c’est ma balle.
– Vous la reconnaissez donc ?
– Je crois bien, tu l’avais marquée.
– Et quel signe lui avais-je fait ?
– Une croix.
– Vous voyez, messieurs, dit Mocquet.
– Alors, explique-nous cela.
– Eh bien, il a écarté les balles ordinaires ; mais il n’a pas eu de puissance sur la balle de l’enfant, qui avait une croix. Il l’a reçue à l’épaule, je l’ai vu faire le mouvement de se mordre.
– Mais, s’il a reçu la balle à l’épaule, demandai-je, étonné du silence et de l’ébahissement des gardes, comment ne l’a-t-elle pas tué ?
– Parce qu’elle n’était ni d’or ni d’argent, mon mignon, et qu’il n’y a que les balles d’or ou d’argent qui puissent entamer la peau du diable et tuer ceux qui ont fait un pacte avec lui.
– Mais enfin, Mocquet, dirent les gardes en frissonnant, tu crois… ?
– Oui, pardié ! je jurerais que nous venons d’avoir affaire au loup de Thibault le sabotier.
Les gardes et les chasseurs se regardèrent.
Deux ou trois firent le signe de la croix.
Tous paraissaient partager l’opinion de Mocquet et savoir ce que c’était que le loup de Thibault le sabotier. Moi seul, je l’ignorais.
– Mais, enfin, insistai-je, qu’est-ce que c’est que le loup de Thibault le sabotier ?
Mocquet hésitait à me répondre.
– Ah ! par ma foi ! s’écria-t-il enfin, le général m’a dit que je pourrais vous conter l’affaire quand vous auriez quinze ans. Vous les avez, n’est-ce pas ?
– J’en ai seize, répondis-je avec fierté.
– Eh bien, le loup de Thibault le sabotier, mon cher monsieur Alexandre, c’est le diable. Vous m’avez demandé hier soir une histoire, n’est-ce pas ?
– Oui.
– Revenez avec moi ce matin à la maison, et je vous en raconterai une, d’histoire, et une belle !
Gardes et chasseurs se séparèrent en échangeant silencieusement une poignée de main ; chacun tira de son côté, et nous rentrâmes chez Mocquet, qui me raconta l’histoire que vous allez lire.
Peut-être me demanderez-vous pourquoi, depuis si longtemps que m’a été racontée la susdite histoire, je ne vous l’ai pas racontée encore. Je vous répondrai qu’elle était serrée dans une case de ma mémoire qui est restée constamment close, et qui ne s’est rouverte qu’il y a trois jours. Je vous dirais bien à quelle occasion : mais probablement ce récit, qui empêcherait notre entrée en matière, serait pour vous d’un médiocre intérêt. J’aime donc mieux commencer mon récit à l’instant même.
Je dis mon récit, quand je devrais peut-être dire le récit de Mocquet. Mais, par ma foi quand on a couvé un œuf trente-huit ans, on peut bien finir par croire qu’on l’a pondu.
(24-30)
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!
(9-12)
Dumas, Alexandre. 1868. Le meneur de loups. (Nouvelle édition). Paris: Lévy.
PDF at:
https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_BhlMAAAAMAAJ/page/n5
and:
https://beq.ebooksgratuits.com/vents/Dumas-meneur.pdf
Online text at:
https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Le_Meneur_de_loups
and
https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Livre:Dumas_-_Le_Meneur_de_loups_(1868).djvu
Dumas, Alexandre. 1921. The Wolf-Leader. Translated by Alfred Allinson. London: Methuen.
PDF at:
https://archive.org/details/wolfleader00duma
or:
https://archive.org/details/wolfleader00dumauoft
Online text at:
.
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