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by Corry Shores
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[Alexandre Dumas, entry directory]
[Dumas. The Wolf-Leader (Le meneur de loups), entry directory]
[The following is summary. Boldface, underlining, bracketed commentary, and section subdivisions 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
6
“Le cheveu du diable”
“The Bedevilled Hair”
Brief summary:
_(6.1)_ (Recall from section 5 that Thibault the sabot-maker made use of his pact with the devil (see section 5.1) to do grave injury to his enemy, Seigneur Jean, Baron of Vez (see section 5.2). He had a apoplectic fit and was brought into Thibault’s house. They had to slaughter Thibault’s goat to extract a medicine to cure Vez.) The hunting party went to find the dogs, which captured and ate the buck they were chasing. They visitors then take Thibault’s food and roast his goat for dinner. Thibault thinks of his potential fiancée Agnelett (see section 3.3), and he seems to regard it being best not to pursue the engagement. He considers instead a prosperous widow, Madame Polet, who runs a busy mill. He never thought before that he had a chance with her, but now with his pact with the devil, he can get rid of his rivals. He also notes his pact may help with Polet’s rumored bad temper and hard heart. The next day Vez and the hunting party leave, and Vez thanks Thibault and forgives him for his previous crimes (see section 2). Thibault regrets the whole affair, as the huntsman ransacked and trashed his house. But he also recognizes that all this matters little in comparison to his new power. He then sets off to Madame Polet to try his luck with her. _(6.2)_ Thibault takes a slightly longer route to pass by the place he first saw Agnelette. He sees her cutting grass for her goats. “He might easily have passed her without being seen, for her back was turned towards him; but the evil spirit prompted him [le démon le tenta], and he went straight up to her.” She sees Thibault and blushes. She then says she dreamt of him last night and prayed for him. “And as she spoke, the vision of Agnelette passing along the sky, with the dress and wings of an Angel, and her hands joined in supplication, as he had seen her the previous night, returned to him.” She then explains: “‘I dreamed of you, Thibault, because I love you,’ she said, ‘and I prayed for you, because I saw the accident that happened to the Baron and his huntsmen, and all the trouble that you were put to in consequence.... Ah! if I had been able to obey the dictates of my heart, I should have run to you at once to give you help’.” She notices his gold ring (the one he made to seal his deal with the Wolf Devil; see section 5.1), and asks where it is from, suspecting it was given by another woman. He lies and says “it is our betrothal ring, the one I have bought to put on your finger the day we are married.” She sadly proves that she knows he is lying, because it is large enough for two of her fingers. She departs from him, saying “I do not love liars.” But she says if it is really her ring, then: “give it me to keep till our wedding day, and on that day I will give it back to you, that you may have it blessed.” He says she should wear it, and: “I am going into Villers-Cotterets to-day, we will take the measure of your finger, and I will get Monsieur Dugué, the goldsmith there, to alter it for us.” Agnelette brightens up. He kisses her hand and offers her forehead too, asking to see the ring. Thibault tries to put it on, starting with her thumb, but the ring resists: “to his great astonishment, he could not get it over the joint. [...] Then Thibault tried to pass it over the first finger, but with the same result as when he put it on the thumb. He next tried the middle finger, but the ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as if fearing to sully this virgin hand; then the third finger, the same on which he wore it himself, but it was equally impossible to get it on. And as he made these vain attempts to fit the ring, Thibault felt Agnelette’s hand trembling more and more violently within his own, while the sweat fell from his own brow, as if he were engaged in the most arduous work; there was something diabolic [diabolique] at the bottom of it, as he knew quite well. At last he came to the little finger and endeavoured to pass the ring over it. This little finger, so small and transparent, that the ring should have hung as loosely upon it as a bracelet on one of Thibault’s, this little finger, in spite of all Agnelette’s efforts, refused to pass through the ring.” Agnelette is confused by this odd behavior of the ring. Then, “ ‘Ring of the Devil, return to the Devil! [Anneau de Satan, retourne à Satan !]’ cried Thibault, flinging the ring against a rock, in the hope that it would be broken. As it struck the rock, it emitted flame; then it rebounded, and in rebounding, fitted itself on to Thibault’s finger.” Agnelette “looked at Thibault in horrified amazement,” and “as she continued to look at Thibault, her eye grew more and more wild and frightened.” Thibault asks what is wrong. She points to his head asking “Oh! Monsieur Thibault, Monsieur Thibault, what have you got there?” Thibault asks her to specify what she is referring to, “But instead of replying, Agnelette covered her face with her hands, and uttering a cry of terror, turned and fled with all her might.” Thibault, alarmed, goes to a crystal clear stream and sees what frightened Agnelette: “he saw there was something bright that shone amid the dark curls on his head and fell over his forehead. He leaned closer still—it was a red hair. A red hair, but of a most peculiar red—not sandy coloured or carrotty; neither of a light shade nor a dark; but a red of the colour of blood, with a brightness of the most vivid flame.” He pulls at it with all his might, but rather then come free, it cut into his fingers. “Thibault might as well have tried to move the oak that threw its shady branches across the stream.” He sets off to Madame Polet, but is so frustrated by this red hair which “seemed to dance before his eyes, dazzling him like flames of running fire” that he says, “By all the devils in hell! I am not far from home yet, and I’ll get the better of this confounded hair somehow [Mille noms d’un diable ! s’écria Thibault, je ne suis pas encore si loin de chez moi, et je veux avoir raison de ce cheveu damné],” and he turns back home to try to uproot it. But even strong tools cannot break it off: he “seized a carpenter’s chisel, placed it so as to cut off the hair as close to the head as possible, and keeping hair and tool in this position, leant over his bench, and dug the chisel down with as much force as possible. The tool cut deeply into the wood of the bench, but the hair remained intact. He tried the same plan again, only this time he armed himself with a mallet, which he swung over his head and brought down with redoubled blows on the handle of the chisel—but he was as far as ever from carrying out his purpose. He noticed, however, that there was a little notch in the sharp edge of the chisel, just the width of a hair. Thibault sighed; he understood now that this hair, the price he had paid in return for his wish, belonged to the black wolf, and he gave up all further attempts to get rid of it.”
[Thibault’s Journey to Woo Madame Polet]
[Thibault’s Dreadful Encounter with Agnelette and His New Bedeviled Red Hair]
Summary
[Thibault’s Journey to Woo Madame Polet]
[(Recall from section 5 that Thibault the sabot-maker made use of his pact with the devil (see section 5.1) to do grave injury to his enemy, Seigneur Jean, Baron of Vez (see section 5.2). He had a apoplectic fit and was brought into Thibault’s house. They had to slaughter Thibault’s goat to extract a medicine to cure Vez.) The hunting party went to find the dogs, which captured and ate the buck they were chasing. They visitors then take Thibault’s food and roast his goat for dinner. Thibault thinks of his potential fiancée Agnelett (see section 3.3), and he seems to regard it being best not to pursue the engagement. He considers instead a prosperous widow, Madame Polet, who runs a busy mill. He never thought before that he had a chance with her, but now with his pact with the devil, he can get rid of his rivals. He also notes his pact may help with Polet’s rumored bad temper and hard heart. The next day Vez and the hunting party leave, and Vez thanks Thibault and forgives him for his previous crimes (see section 2). Thibault regrets the whole affair, as the huntsman ransacked and trashed his house. But he also recognizes that all this matters little in comparison to his new power. He then sets off to Madame Polet to try his luck with her.]
[ditto]
Les valets, tranquillisés désormais sur la santé de leur maître, partirent à la recherche des chiens, que l’on avait laissés continuer leur chasse.
Ils les trouvèrent couchés et dormant à un endroit où la terre était rouge.
Il était clair qu’ils avaient forcé, pris et mangé le daim, et, s’il leur fût resté aucun doute, ce doute leur eût été enlevé par la présence des bois avec un reste de mâchoire, seules parties du corps qu’ils n’eussent pas pu broyer et faire disparaître.
Quoi qu’il en semblât, ils étaient les seuls qui eussent lieu d’être satisfaits de leur journée.
On les enferma dans l’étable de Thibault, et, comme le baron reposait toujours, les veneurs songèrent à souper.
Ils s’emparèrent de tout ce que la huche du pauvre diable contenait de pain, firent rôtir la chèvre et invitèrent poliment Thibault à partager ce repas, dont il avait un peu fait les frais.
Thibault refusa, sous le prétexte plausible qu’il n’était pas encore remis de la profonde émotion que lui avaient causée la mort de Marcotte et l’accident du baron.
Il rassembla les débris de son beau vidercome, et, après s’être bien assuré qu’il était inutile de songer à les rapprocher, il se mit à réfléchir sur ce qu’il pourrait bien faire pour sortir au plus tôt de la vie misérable que les deux jours qui venaient de s’écouler lui rendaient plus insupportable que jamais.
La première image qui se présenta à son esprit fut celle d’Agnelette.
Comme les enfants voient en rêve passer de beaux anges, il la vit toujours, toute vêtue de blanc, glisser sur un ciel bleu avec de grandes ailes blanches.
Elle semblait bien heureuse, et, lui faisant signe de la suivre :
– Ceux qui viendront avec moi seront bien heureux, disait-elle.
Mais, à cette charmante vision, Thibault répondait par un mouvement de tête et d’épaules qui voulait dire :
— Oui, oui, l’Agnelette, je te reconnais bien, c’est toi. Mais c’était bon pour hier, de te suivre ; aujourd’hui que, comme un roi, j’ordonne à la vie et à la mort, je ne suis pas un homme à faire de déraisonnables concessions à un amour né de la veille et balbutiant à peine son premier mot. Devenir ton mari, ma pauvre Agnelette, au lieu de nous affranchir des dures nécessités de la vie, ne serait-ce pas un moyen de doubler et tripler le fardeau sous lequel nous succombons chacun de notre côté ? Non ! l’Agnelette, non ! Vous feriez une charmante maîtresse ; mais, pour femme, il faut quelqu’un qui apporte en écus dans le ménage l’équivalent de ce que j’y apporte en pouvoir.
Sa conscience lui disait bien qu’il y avait engagement pris entre lui et l’Agnelette. Mais il se répondait que, s’il rompait l’engagement, c’était pour le bien de la douce créature.
– Je suis honnête homme, murmurait-il tout bas, et je dois immoler mes satisfactions personnelles au bonheur de la chère enfant. D’ailleurs, elle est assez jeune, assez jolie et assez sage, pour trouver un sort bien meilleur que celui qui l’attendrait quand elle serait la femme d’un simple sabotier.
La conclusion de toutes ces belles réflexions fut pour Thibault qu’il fallait laisser emporter à la brise les ridicules promesses de la veille et oublier des fiançailles qui n’avaient eu pour témoins que les feuilles tremblotantes des bouleaux et les fleurs roses des bruyères.
D’ailleurs, il y avait au moulin de Coyolles une belle meunière dont l’image n’était pas tout à fait étrangère au nouveau parti que prenait Thibault.
C’était une jeune veuve de vingt-six à vingt-huit ans, fraîche et dodue, aux yeux malins et agaçants.
Elle passait, en outre, pour le plus riche parti des environs ; car son moulin ne chômait guère, et, sous tous les rapports, comme on voit, c’était bien mieux l’affaire de Thibault.
En d’autres temps, jamais Thibault n’eût osé élever ses visées jusqu’à la riche et belle madame Polet.
C’était ainsi que s’appelait la meunière, et voilà pourquoi son nom se trouve pour la première fois sous notre plume.
En effet, pour la première fois, celle que l’on désignait par ce nom se présentait sérieusement à l’esprit de notre héros.
Il était tout étonné lui-même de n’avoir pas pensé plus tôt à la meunière, et il se disait qu’il y avait bien pensé autrefois, mais sans espoir, tandis qu’aujourd’hui, avec la protection du loup, et fort du pouvoir surnaturel qu’il tenait de lui et avait déjà eu l’occasion d’exercer, il lui paraissait facile d’écarter tous ses concurrents et d’en arriver à ses fins.
Les mauvaises langues disaient bien la meunière de Coyolles quelque peu méchante et acariâtre.
Mais le sabotier pensa qu’avec le diable dans sa manche, il ne devait guère se soucier du malin esprit, pauvre petit démon secondaire qui pouvait nicher dans le corps de madame veuve Polet. Or, lorsque le jour vint, il était décidé à se rendre à Coyolles ; car toutes ces visions, naturellement, se passaient la nuit.
Le seigneur Jean se réveilla avec le premier chant de la fauvette. Il se sentait tout à fait remis de son indisposition de la veille ; il fit lever tout haut son monde à grands coups de houssine, et, après avoir expédié le corps de Marcotte au château de Vez, il décida qu’il ne rentrerait pas bredouille au logis et qu’il chasserait un sanglier, comme si rien d’extraordinaire ne lui fût arrivé le jour précédent.
Enfin, vers six heures du matin, il quitta la maison de Thibault, après avoir assuré à celui-ci qu’il était bien reconnaissant de la bonne hospitalité que lui, ses chiens et ses gens avaient trouvée dans cette pauvre hutte ; en considération de quoi, il jura d’oublier complètement les petits griefs qu’il pouvait avoir contre le sabotier.
On devine si Thibault vit partir sans regret seigneur, chiens et gens.
Puis seigneur, chiens et gens partis, il contempla pendant quelques instants sa demeure saccagée, sa huche vide, ses meubles brisés, son étable solitaire, le sol jonché de débris.
Mais il se dit que c’était là le résultat naturel du passage d’un grand seigneur, et l’avenir lui apparaissait trop lumineux pour qu’il s’arrêtât longtemps à ce spectacle.
Il revêtit ses hardes du dimanche, s’attifa de son mieux, mangea sur son dernier morceau de pain le dernier lopin de sa chèvre, but un grand verre d’eau à la source, et se mit en route pour Coyolles.
Thibault avait résolu de tenter fortune, dès le même jour, près de madame Polet.
Il partit donc vers les neuf heures du matin.
(92-96)
THE huntsmen, being reassured with regard to their master’s health, now went in search of the dogs, which had been left to carry on the chase alone. They were found lying asleep, the ground around them stained with blood. It was evident that they had run down the buck and eaten it; if any doubt on the matter remained, it was done away with by the sight of the antlers, and a portion of the jaw bone, the only parts of the animal which they could not crunch up, and which had therefore not disappeared. In short, they were the only ones who had cause to be satisfied with the day’s work. The huntsmen, after shutting up the hounds in Thibault’s shed, seeing that their master was still sleeping, began to turn their thoughts to getting some supper. They laid hands on everything they could find in the poor wretch’s cupboard, and roasted the goat, politely inviting Thibault to take a share in the meal towards the cost of which he had not a little contributed. He refused, giving as a plausible excuse, the great agitation he still was under, owing to Marcotte’s death and the Baron’s accident.
He gathered up the fragments of his beloved drinking-cup, and seeing that it was useless to think of ever being able to put it together again, he began turning over in his mind what it might be possible for him to do, so as to free himself from the miserable existence which the events of the last two days had rendered more insupportable than ever. The first image that appeared to him, was that of Agnelette. Like the beautiful angels that pass before the eyes of children in their dreams, he saw her figure, dressed all in white, with large white wings, floating across a blue sky. She seemed happy and beckoned to him to follow, saying the while “Those who come with me will be very happy.” But the only answer which Thibault vouchsafed to this charming vision was a movement of the head and shoulders, which interpreted, meant, “Yes, yes, Agnelette, I see you, and recognise you; yesterday, it would have been all very well to follow you; but to-day I am, like a king, the arbiter of life and death, and I am not the man to make foolish concessions to a love only born a day ago, and which has hardly learnt to stammer out its first words. To marry you, my poor child, far from lessening the bitter hardships of our lives, would only double or treble the burden under which we are both borne down. No, Agnelette, no! You would make a charming mistress; but, a wife—she must be in a position to bring money to support the household, equal in proportion to the power which I should contribute.”
His conscience told him plainly that he was engaged to marry Agnelette; but he quieted it with the assurance that if he broke the engagement, it would be for the good of that gentle creature.
“I am an upright man,” he murmured to himself, “and it is my duty to sacrifice my personal pleasure to the welfare of the dear child. And more than that, she is sufficiently young and pretty and good, to find a better fate than what would await her as the wife of a plain sabot maker.” And the end of all these fine reflections was, that Thibault felt himself bound to allow his foolish promises of the day before to melt away into air, and to forget the betrothal, of which the only witnesses had been the quivering leaves of the birch trees, and the pink blossom of the heather. It should be added that there was another mental vision, not wholly irresponsible for the resolution at which Thibault had arrived,—the vision of a certain young widow, owner of the mill at Croyolles, a woman between twenty-six and twenty-eight, fresh and plump, with fine, rolling eyes, not devoid of mischief. Moreover, she was credibly supposed to be the richest match in all the country side, for her mill was never idle, and so, for all reasons, as one can clearly see, it was the very thing for Thibault.
Formerly, it would never have occurred to Thibault to aspire to anyone in the position of the rich and beautiful Madame Polet, for such was the name of the owner of the mill; and this will explain why her name is introduced here for the first time. And, in truth, it was the first time that she had ever occurred as a subject of serious consideration to our hero. He was astonished at himself for not having thought of her before, but then, as he said to himself, he had often thought about her, but without hope, while now, seeing that he was under the protection of the wolf, and that he had been endowed with a supernatural power, which he had already had occasion to exercise, it seemed to him an easy matter to get rid of all his rivals and achieve his purpose. True there were evil tongues that spoke of the owner of the mill as having something of an ill-temper and a hard heart; but the shoe-maker came to the conclusion that, with the devil up his sleeve, he need not trouble himself about any wicked spirit, any petty little second-class demon that might find a corner in Widow Polet’s disposition. And so, by the time the day broke, he had decided to go to Croyolles, for all these visions had of course visited him during the night.
The Lord of Vez awoke with the first song of the birds; he had entirely recovered from his indisposition of the day before, and woke up his followers with loud slashings of his whip. Having sent off Marcotte’s body to Vez, he decided that he would not return home without having killed something, but that he would hunt the boar, just as if nothing out of the way had taken place on the previous day. At last, about six o’clock in the morning, they all went off, the Baron assuring Thibault that he was most grateful to him for the hospitality that he himself and his men and dogs had met with under his poor roof, in consideration of which he was quite willing, he swore, to forget all the grievances which he had against the shoe-maker.
It will be easily guessed that Thibault experienced little regret at the departure of lord, dogs, and huntsmen. All these having at last disappeared, he stood a few moments contemplating his ransacked home, his empty cupboard, his broken furniture, his empty shed, the ground scattered with fragments of his belongings. But, as he told himself, all this was the ordinary thing to happen whenever one of the great lords went through a place, and the future, as it appeared to him, was far too brilliant to allow him to dwell long on this spectacle. He dressed himself in his Sunday attire, smartening himself as best he could, ate his last bit of bread with the last morsel left of his goat, went to the spring and drank a large glass of water, and started off for Croyolles. Thibault was determined to try his fortune with Madame Polet before the day was over, and therefore set out about nine o’clock in the morning.
(35-37)
[Thibault’s Dreadful Encounter with Agnelette and His New Bedeviled Red Hair]
[Thibault takes a slightly longer route to pass by the place he first saw Agnelette. He sees her cutting grass for her goats. “He might easily have passed her without being seen, for her back was turned towards him; but the evil spirit prompted him [le démon le tenta], and he went straight up to her.” She sees Thibault and blushes. She then says she dreamt of him last night and prayed for him. “And as she spoke, the vision of Agnelette passing along the sky, with the dress and wings of an Angel, and her hands joined in supplication, as he had seen her the previous night, returned to him.” She then explains: “‘I dreamed of you, Thibault, because I love you,’ she said, ‘and I prayed for you, because I saw the accident that happened to the Baron and his huntsmen, and all the trouble that you were put to in consequence.... Ah! if I had been able to obey the dictates of my heart, I should have run to you at once to give you help’.” She notices his gold ring (the one he made to seal his deal with the Wolf Devil; see section 5.1), and asks where it is from, suspecting it was given by another woman. He lies and says “it is our betrothal ring, the one I have bought to put on your finger the day we are married.” She sadly proves that she knows he is lying, because it is large enough for two of her fingers. She departs from him, saying “I do not love liars.” But she says if it is really her ring, then: “give it me to keep till our wedding day, and on that day I will give it back to you, that you may have it blessed.” He says she should wear it, and: “I am going into Villers-Cotterets to-day, we will take the measure of your finger, and I will get Monsieur Dugué, the goldsmith there, to alter it for us.” Agnelette brightens up. He kisses her hand and offers her forehead too, asking to see the ring. Thibault tries to put it on, starting with her thumb, but the ring resists: “to his great astonishment, he could not get it over the joint. [...] Then Thibault tried to pass it over the first finger, but with the same result as when he put it on the thumb. He next tried the middle finger, but the ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as if fearing to sully this virgin hand; then the third finger, the same on which he wore it himself, but it was equally impossible to get it on. And as he made these vain attempts to fit the ring, Thibault felt Agnelette’s hand trembling more and more violently within his own, while the sweat fell from his own brow, as if he were engaged in the most arduous work; there was something diabolic [diabolique] at the bottom of it, as he knew quite well. At last he came to the little finger and endeavoured to pass the ring over it. This little finger, so small and transparent, that the ring should have hung as loosely upon it as a bracelet on one of Thibault’s, this little finger, in spite of all Agnelette’s efforts, refused to pass through the ring.” Agnelette is confused by this odd behavior of the ring. Then, “ ‘Ring of the Devil, return to the Devil! [Anneau de Satan, retourne à Satan !]’ cried Thibault, flinging the ring against a rock, in the hope that it would be broken. As it struck the rock, it emitted flame; then it rebounded, and in rebounding, fitted itself on to Thibault’s finger.” Agnelette “looked at Thibault in horrified amazement,” and “as she continued to look at Thibault, her eye grew more and more wild and frightened.” Thibault asks what is wrong. She points to his head asking “Oh! Monsieur Thibault, Monsieur Thibault, what have you got there?” Thibault asks her to specify what she is referring to, “But instead of replying, Agnelette covered her face with her hands, and uttering a cry of terror, turned and fled with all her might.” Thibault, alarmed, goes to a crystal clear stream and sees what frightened Agnelette: “he saw there was something bright that shone amid the dark curls on his head and fell over his forehead. He leaned closer still—it was a red hair. A red hair, but of a most peculiar red—not sandy coloured or carrotty; neither of a light shade nor a dark; but a red of the colour of blood, with a brightness of the most vivid flame.” He pulls at it with all his might, but rather then come free, it cut into his fingers. “Thibault might as well have tried to move the oak that threw its shady branches across the stream.” He sets off to Madame Polet, but is so frustrated by this red hair which “seemed to dance before his eyes, dazzling him like flames of running fire” that he says, “By all the devils in hell! I am not far from home yet, and I’ll get the better of this confounded hair somehow [Mille noms d’un diable ! s’écria Thibault, je ne suis pas encore si loin de chez moi, et je veux avoir raison de ce cheveu damné],” and he turns back home to try to uproot it. But even strong tools cannot break it off: he “seized a carpenter’s chisel, placed it so as to cut off the hair as close to the head as possible, and keeping hair and tool in this position, leant over his bench, and dug the chisel down with as much force as possible. The tool cut deeply into the wood of the bench, but the hair remained intact. He tried the same plan again, only this time he armed himself with a mallet, which he swung over his head and brought down with redoubled blows on the handle of the chisel—but he was as far as ever from carrying out his purpose. He noticed, however, that there was a little notch in the sharp edge of the chisel, just the width of a hair. Thibault sighed; he understood now that this hair, the price he had paid in return for his wish, belonged to the black wolf, and he gave up all further attempts to get rid of it.”]
[ditto]
Le chemin le plus court pour aller à Coyolles était par la queue d’Oigny et Pisseleu.
Maintenant, comment se fit-il que Thibault, qui connaissait toute la forêt de Villers-Cotterêts comme un tailleur connaît les poches qu’il a faites, comment se fit-il que Thibault prit l’allée de la Chrétiennelle, qui devait l’allonger d’une bonne demi-lieue ?
C’est que cette allée de la Chrétiennelle le rapprochait de l’endroit où il avait vu Agnelette pour la première fois et que, tout en allant par calcul au moulin de Coyolles, il était tiré par le cœur du côté de Préciamont.
Et, en effet, un peu au-delà de la Ferté-Milon, il aperçut au bord du chemin la jolie Agnelette, qui faisait de l’herbe pour ses chèvres.
Il eût pu passer sans qu’elle le vît ; la chose lui était facile : elle lui tournait le dos.
Mais le démon le tenta et il marcha droit à elle.
Elle, de son côté, penchée pour couper de l’herbe avec sa faucille, entendant venir quelqu’un, leva la tête et reconnut Thibault. Elle rougit.
Mais, en rougissant, un joyeux sourire se répandit sur toute sa physionomie ; ce qui prouvait bien que cette rougeur n’avait rien d’hostile à Thibault.
– Ah ! dit-elle ; vous voilà ; j’ai bien rêvé à vous et bien prié pour vous cette nuit.
Thibault, en effet, se rappela qu’il avait vu dans ses rêves, à lui, Agnelette passant dans le ciel les mains jointes avec une robe et des ailes d’ange.
– Et à quel propos avez-vous rêvé de moi et prié pour moi, la belle enfant ? demanda Thibault d’un air aussi dégagé qu’eût pu le faire un jeune seigneur de la cour du prince.
Agnelette le regarda avec ses grands yeux couleur de ciel.
– J’ai rêvé de vous parce que je vous aime, Thibault, dit-elle ; j’ai prié pour vous parce que j’ai vu l’accident arrivé au seigneur Jean et à son piqueur, ainsi que tout l’embarras qui en était résulté pour vous… Ah ! si je n’en avais cru que mon cœur, j’aurais vivement couru à vous pour vous aider.
– Il fallait venir, Agnelette ; vous eussiez trouvé joyeuse compagnie, je vous en réponds !
– Oh ! ce n’est pas cela que j’eusse cherché, monsieur Thibault ; j’eusse cherché à vous être utile pour la recevoir. Oh ! mais qu’est-ce donc que cette belle bague que vous avez au doigt, monsieur Thibault ?
Et la jeune fille désignait l’anneau que Thibault avait reçu du loup.
Thibault sentit un frisson lui courir dans les veines.
– Cette bague ? dit-il.
– Oui, cette bague.
Agnelette, voyant que Thibault hésitait à lui répondre, détourna la tête et poussa un soupir.
– Sans doute un cadeau de quelque belle dame, murmura-t-elle.
– Eh bien, reprit Thibault avec l’assurance d’un menteur consommé, voilà ce qui vous trompe, Agnelette : c’est l’anneau de nos fiançailles, l’anneau que j’ai acheté pour vous le passer au doigt le jour de notre mariage. Agnelette secoua tristement la tête.
– Pourquoi ne pas me dire la vérité ; monsieur Thibault ? demanda-t-elle.
– Je vous la dis, Agnelette.
– Non.
Et elle secoua la tête plus tristement encore.
– Et qui vous fait croire que je mens ?
– C’est que cette bague est large à y fourrer deux de mes doigts.
En effet, le doigt de Thibault faisait bien deux des doigts de la jeune fille.
– Si elle est trop large, Agnelette, dit-il, nous la ferons resserrer.
– Adieu, monsieur Thibault.
– Comment ! adieu ?
– Oui.
– Vous vous en allez ?
– Je m’en vas.
– Et pourquoi, Agnelette ?
– Parce que je n’aime pas les menteurs.
Thibault chercha un serment pour rassurer Agnelette, mais il n’en put trouver.
– Écoutez, dit Agnelette les larmes aux yeux, car elle ne s’éloignait pas sans faire un grand effort sur elle-même, si cette bague m’est vraiment destinée…
– Agnelette, je vous le jure.
– Eh bien, donnez-la-moi à garder jusqu’au jour de notre mariage, et, ce jour-là, je vous la rendrai pour que vous la fassiez bénir.
– Je ne demande pas mieux que de vous la donner, Agnelette, reprit Thibault ; mais je veux la voir à votre jolie main. Vous m’avez fait une observation très juste : c’est qu’elle était trop large pour vous. Je vais aujourd’hui à Villers-Cotterêts : nous allons prendre la mesure de votre doigt, et je la ferai scier par M. Dugué, l’orfèvre.
Le sourire reparut sur les lèvres d’Agnelette et les larmes se séchèrent subitement dans ses yeux. Elle tendit sa petite main à Thibault. Thibault la prit un instant dans les siennes, la tourna et la retourna, puis il y appliqua un baiser.
– Oh ! dit Agnelette, ne baisez donc pas ma main ainsi : elle n’est pas assez belle, monsieur Thibault.
– Alors, donnez-moi autre chose.
Agnelette lui donna son front. Puis, avec une joie enfantine :
– Voyons, dit-elle, voyons la bague.
Thibault tira la bague de sa main, et, en riant, voulut l’essayer au pouce d’Agnelette.
Mais, à son grand étonnement, la bague se trouva trop étroite et ne put passer la seconde phalange.
– Tiens ! fit Thibault, qui jamais aurait dit cela ?
Agnelette se mit à rire.
– En effet, dit-elle, c’est drôle !
Thibault essaya l’anneau au doigt indicateur d’Agnelette.
L’anneau refusa d’entrer, comme il avait fait pour le pouce.
Alors Thibault essaya du médium.
On eût dit que l’anneau se rétrécissait de plus en plus, comme s’il craignait de souiller cette main virginale.
Après le médium, Thibault voulut passer la bague à l’annulaire.
C’était le même doigt auquel il la portait lui-même.
Même impossibilité que pour les autres.
Au fur et à mesure que l’expérience se faisait, Thibault sentait trembler la main d’Agnelette dans les siennes, et la sueur tombait de son front, à lui, comme s’il eût accompli la plus fatigante besogne.
Il sentait qu’il y avait là-dessous quelque chose de diabolique.
Enfin, il l’essaya au petit doigt d’Agnelette.
Ce petit doigt, frêle et transparent, autour duquel l’anneau devait jouer aussi facilement qu’un bracelet eût joué à celui de Thibault, ce petit doigt, malgré les efforts que fit Agnelette, ne put entrer dans l’anneau.
– Ah ! monsieur Thibault, s’écria l’enfant, que veut donc dire cela, mon Dieu ?
– Anneau de Satan, retourne à Satan ! s’écria Thibault.
Et il jeta l’anneau contre un rocher, dans l’espérance de l’y briser.
L’anneau fit feu comme si Thibault eût donné un coup de pied contre le granit, rejaillit vers lui, et, en rejaillissant, rentra de lui-même à son doigt.
Agnelette vit cette évolution étrange de la bague et regarda Thibault avec effroi.
– Eh bien, demanda Thibault essayant de payer d’audace, qu’y a-t-il ?
Agnelette ne répondit pas.
Seulement, elle regardait Thibault d’un œil de plus en plus effaré. Thibault ne savait pas ce qu’elle regardait.
Mais elle leva lentement la main jusqu’à la tête de Thibault, et, le doigt étendu :
– Oh ! monsieur Thibault, dit-elle, oh ! monsieur Thibault, qu’avez-vous donc là ?
– Où ? demanda Thibault.
– Là ! là ! dit Agnelette pâlissant de plus en plus.
– Mais, enfin, où ? s’écria le sabotier en frappant du pied la terre. Dites ce que vous voyez.
Mais, au lieu de répondre, Agnelette ramena ses mains sur ses yeux ; puis, en poussant un cri de terreur, se mit à fuir de toutes ses forces.
Thibault, tout abasourdi de ce qu’il lui arrivait, n’essaya pas même de la suivre. Il resta au même endroit, immobile, muet, interdit.
Qu’avait donc vu Agnelette de si effrayant, et que désignait-elle du doigt ?
Était-ce le sceau que Dieu avait imprimé au premier meurtrier ?
Pourquoi pas ? Comme Caïn, Thibault n’avait-il pas tué un homme, et, au dernier prêche d’Oigny, le curé n’avait-il pas dit que tous les hommes étaient frères ?
Ce doute dévorait Thibault.
Il fallait avant tout savoir ce qui avait si fort épouvanté Agnelette.
Thibault eut l’idée d’entrer à Bourg-Fontaine et de se regarder dans une glace.
Mais, s’il était véritablement marqué du signe fatal, et si ce signe fatal était vu par une autre qu’Agnelette !
Non, il fallait trouver un autre moyen.
Il y avait bien celui d’enfoncer son chapeau sur son front, de s’en retourner tout courant à Oigny et de se regarder dans un fragment de miroir.
Mais c’était bien long.
Il y avait, à cent pas de là, une source transparente comme un cristal, qui alimentait l’étang de Baisemont et ceux de Bourg.
Thibault pouvait s’y mirer comme dans la plus fine glace de Saint-Gobain.
Thibault s’agenouilla au bord de la source et se regarda.
Il avait toujours les mêmes yeux, le même nez, la même bouche, et pas le plus petit signe au front.
Thibault respira.
Mais, enfin, il fallait bien qu’il y eût quelque chose. Agnelette n’avait évidemment pas pris peur pour rien.
Thibault se pencha un peu plus vers le cristal de la fontaine. Alors il aperçut au milieu de ses cheveux quelque chose de brillant qui scintillait dans leurs boucles noires et retombait sur son front.
Il se pencha davantage encore.
C’était un cheveu rouge qu’il avait aperçu.
Mais d’un rouge singulier, qui ne tenait ni du blond ardent, ni du blond carotte, ni de la nuance sang de bœuf, ni de la nuance ponceau.
C’était un rouge sanglant, ayant la couleur et l’éclat de la flamme la plus vive.
Sans chercher par quel phénomène un cheveu d’une couleur aussi insolite avait poussé là, Thibault tenta de se l’arracher.
Il fit pendre à la surface de l’eau la boucle dans laquelle flamboyait le terrible cheveu rouge, le saisit délicatement entre le pouce et l’index et lui imprima une vigoureuse secousse.
Le cheveu résista.
Thibault alors jugea que la pince n’avait pas été assez serrée, et essaya d’un autre moyen.
Il enroula le cheveu autour de son doigt et fit un violent effort.
Le cheveu entama l’épiderme du doigt plutôt que de céder.
Thibault enroula le cheveu récalcitrant autour de deux doigts et tira.
Le cheveu souleva le cuir chevelu et ne bougea pas plus que si le sabotier se fût escrimé sur le chêne qui étendait ses rameaux ombreux au-dessus de la source.
Thibault songea d’abord à continuer sa route vers Coyolles, se disant à lui-même qu’après tout, ce ne serait probablement pas la nuance équivoque d’un cheveu qui ferait avorter ses projets de mariage.
Mais cependant ce misérable cheveu le taquinait, l’obsédait, lui papillotait devant les yeux avec les mille éblouissements que donne la flamme quand elle court de tison en tison.
Enfin, s’impatientant et frappant du pied :
– Mille noms d’un diable ! s’écria Thibault, je ne suis pas encore si loin de chez moi, et je veux avoir raison de ce cheveu damné.
Il revint sur ses pas tout courant, entra dans sa hutte, retrouva son cheveu en se regardant dans son fragment de glace, prit un ciseau de menuisier, l’appuya sur le cheveu le plus près de la tête qu’il lui fut possible, plaça cheveu et outil dans cette position sur son établi et donna une vigoureuse impulsion du manche du ciseau.
Le ciseau entailla profondément le bois de l’établi, mais le cheveu resta intact.
Il renouvela la même manœuvre ; mais cette fois, s’armant d’un maillet et élevant le bras au-dessus de sa tête, il frappa à coups redoublés sur le manche du ciseau.
Il n’en fut pas plus avancé. Il remarqua seulement qu’il y avait au tranchant de son outil une petite brèche juste de la largeur d’un cheveu.
Thibault soupira ; il comprit que ce cheveu, prix du souhait qu’il avait fait, appartenait au loup noir, et il renonça à son entreprise.
(96-104)
The shortest way to Croyolles was round by the rear of Oigny and Pisseleu. Now Thibault knew every in and out of the forest of Villers-Cotterets as well as any tailor knows the pockets he has made; why, therefore, did he take the Chrétiennelle track, seeing that it lengthened his journey by a good mile and a half? Reader, it was because this lane would bring him near to the spot where he had first seen Agnelette, for, although practical considerations were carrying him in the direction of Croyolles Mill, his heart was drawing him towards Préciamont. And there, as fate would have it, just after crossing the road that runs to La Ferté-Milou, he came upon Agnelette, cutting grass by the way-side for her goats. He might easily have passed her without being seen, for her back was turned towards him; but the evil spirit prompted him [le démon le tenta], and he went straight up to her. She was stooping to cut the grass with her sickle, but hearing someone approaching she lifted her head, and blushed as she recognised that it was Thibault. With the blush a happy smile rose to her face, which showed that the rising colour was not due to any feeling of hostility towards him.
“Ah! there you are,” she said. “I dreamt much of you last night, and prayed many prayers for you also.” And as she spoke, the vision of Agnelette passing along the sky, with the dress and wings of an Angel, and her hands joined in supplication, as he had seen her the previous night, returned to him.
“And what made you dream of me and pray for me, my pretty child?” asked Thibault with as unconcerned an air as a young lord at Court. Agnelette looked at him with her large eyes of heavenly blue.
“I dreamed of you, Thibault, because I love you,” she said, “and I prayed for you, because I saw the accident that happened to the Baron and his huntsmen, and all the trouble that you were put to in consequence.... Ah! if I had been able to obey the dictates of my heart, I should have run to you at once to give you help.”
“It is a pity you did not come; you would have found a merry company, I can tell you.”
“Oh! it was not for that I should have liked to be with you, but to be of use to you in receiving the Baron and his train. Oh! what a beautiful ring you have, Monsieur Thibault, where did you get it?”
And the girl pointed to the ring which had been given to Thibault by the wolf. Thibault felt his blood run cold. “This ring?” he said.
“Yes, that ring,” and seeing that Thibault appeared unwilling to answer her, Agnelette turned her head aside, and sighed. “A present from some fine lady, I suppose,” she said in a low voice.
“There you are mistaken, Agnelette,” replied Thibault with all the assurance of a consummate liar, “it is our betrothal ring, the one I have bought to put on your finger the day we are married.”
“Why not tell me the truth, Monsieur Thibault?” said Agnelette, shaking her head sadly.
“I am speaking the truth, Agnelette.”
“No,” and she shook her head more sadly than before.
“And what makes you think that I am telling a lie?”
“Because the ring is large enough to go over two of my fingers.” And Thibault’s finger would certainly have made two of Agnelette’s.
“If it is too large, Agnelette,” he said, “we can have it made smaller.”
“Good-bye, Monsieur Thibault.”
“What! Good-bye?”
“Yes.”
“You are going to leave me?”
“Yes, I am going.”
“And why, Agnelette?”
“Because I do not love liars.”
Thibault tried to think of some vow he could make to reassure Agnelette, but in vain.
“Listen,” said Agnelette, with tears in her eyes, for it was not without a great effort of self-control that she was turning away, “if that ring is really meant for me....”
“Agnelette, I swear to you that it is.”
“Well then, give it me to keep till our wedding day, and on that day I will give it back to you, that you may have it blessed.”
“I will give it you with all my heart,” replied Thibault, “but I want to see it on your pretty hand. You were right in saying that it was too large for you, and I am going into Villers-Cotterets to-day, we will take the measure of your finger, and I will get Monsieur Dugué, the goldsmith there, to alter it for us.”
The smile returned to Agnelette’s face and her tears were dried up at once. She put out her little hand; Thibault took it between his own, turned it over and looked at it, first on the back and then on the palm, and stooping, kissed it.
“Oh!” said Agnelette “you should not kiss my hand, Monsieur Thibault, it is not pretty enough.”
“Give me something else then to kiss.” And Agnelette lifted her face that he might kiss her on the forehead.
“And now,” she said joyously, and with childish eagerness, “let me see the ring.”
Thibault drew off the ring, and laughing, tried to put it on Agnelette’s thumb; but, to his great astonishment, he could not get it over the joint. “Well, well,” he exclaimed “who would ever have thought such a thing?”
Agnelette began to laugh. “It is funny, isn’t it!” she said.
Then Thibault tried to pass it over the first finger, but with the same result as when he put it on the thumb. He next tried the middle finger, but the ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as if fearing to sully this virgin hand; then the third finger, the same on which he wore it himself, but it was equally impossible to get it on. And as he made these vain attempts to fit the ring, Thibault felt Agnelette’s hand trembling more and more violently within his own, while the sweat fell from his own brow, as if he were engaged in the most arduous work; there was something diabolic [diabolique] at the bottom of it, as he knew quite well. At last he came to the little finger and endeavoured to pass the ring over it. This little finger, so small and transparent, that the ring should have hung as loosely upon it as a bracelet on one of Thibault’s, this little finger, in spite of all Agnelette’s efforts, refused to pass through the ring. “Ah! my God, Monsieur Thibault,” cried the child “what does this mean?”
“Ring of the Devil, return to the Devil! [Anneau de Satan, retourne à Satan !]” cried Thibault, flinging the ring against a rock, in the hope that it would be broken. As it struck the rock, it emitted flame; then it rebounded, and in rebounding, fitted itself on to Thibault’s finger. Agnelette who saw this strange evolution of the ring, looked at Thibault in horrified amazement. “Well,” he said, trying to brave it out, “what is the matter?”
Agnelette did not answer, but as she continued to look at Thibault, her eye grew more and more wild and frightened. Thibault could not think what she was looking at, but slowly lifting her hand and pointing with her finger at Thibault’s head, she said, “Oh! Monsieur Thibault, Monsieur Thibault, what have you got there?”
“Where?” asked Thibault.
“There! there!” cried Agnelette, growing paler and paler.
“Well, but where?” cried the shoe-maker, stamping with his foot. “Tell me what you see.”
But instead of replying, Agnelette covered her face with her hands, and uttering a cry of terror, turned and fled with all her might.
Thibault, stunned by what had happened, did not even attempt to follow her; he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak, as if thunderstruck.
What had Agnelette seen that had alarmed her so? What was it that she pointed to with her finger? Had God branded him, as He branded the first murderer? And why not? Had not he, like Cain, killed a man? and in the last sermon he had heard at Oigny had not the preacher said that all men were brothers? Thibault felt wild with misgivings; what had so terrified Agnelette? That he must find out without delay. At first he thought he would go into the town of Bourg-Fontaine and look at himself in a glass. But then, supposing the fatal mark was upon him, and others, besides Agnelette, were to see it! No, he must think of some other way of finding out. He could, of course, pull his hat over his brow, and run back to Oigny, where he had a fragment of mirror in which he could see himself; but Oigny was a long way off. Then he remembered that only a few paces from where he stood, there was a spring as transparent as crystal, which fed the pond near Baisemont, and those at Bourg; he would be able to see himself in that as clearly as in the finest mirror from Saint-Gobain. So Thibault went to the side of the stream and, kneeling down, looked at himself. He saw the same eyes, the same nose, and the same mouth, and not even the slightest little mark upon the forehead—he drew a breath of relief. But still, there must have been something. Agnelette had certainly not taken fright as she had, for nothing. Thibault bent over closer to the crystal water; and now he saw there was something bright that shone amid the dark curls on his head and fell over his forehead. He leaned closer still—it was a red hair. A red hair, but of a most peculiar red—not sandy coloured or carrotty; neither of a light shade nor a dark; but a red of the colour of blood, with a brightness of the most vivid flame. Without stopping to consider how a hair of such a phenomenal colour could possibly have grown there, he began trying to pull it out. He drew forward the curl where gleamed the terrible red hair, that it might hang over the water, and then taking hold of it carefully between his finger and thumb gave it a violent pull; but the hair refused to come away. Thinking that he had not got sufficient hold of it, he tried another way, winding the hair round his finger and again giving it a vigorous jerk—the hair cut into his fingers but remained as firmly rooted as ever. Thibault then turned it round two of his fingers and pulled again; the hair lifted a little bit of his scalp, but as to moving, Thibault might as well have tried to move the oak that threw its shady branches across the stream. Thibault began to think that he would do better to continue his walk to Croyolles; after all, as he remarked to himself, the questionable colour of a single hair would not hardly upset his plans of marriage. Neverthetheless, the wretched hair caused him a great deal of worry; he could not get it out of his mind, it seemed to dance before his eyes, dazzling him like flames of running fire, until at last, out of all patience, he stamped his foot, exclaiming, “By all the devils in hell! I am not far from home yet, and I’ll get the better of this confounded hair somehow. [Mille noms d’un diable ! s’écria Thibault, je ne suis pas encore si loin de chez moi, et je veux avoir raison de ce cheveu damné.]” Whereupon he set off running back towards his hut, went in and found his fragment of mirror, got hold of his hair again, seized a carpenter’s chisel, placed it so as to cut off the hair as close to the head as possible, and keeping hair and tool in this position, leant over his bench, and dug the chisel down with as much force as possible. The tool cut deeply into the wood of the bench, but the hair remained intact. He tried the same plan again, only this time he armed himself with a mallet, which he swung over his head and brought down with redoubled blows on the handle of the chisel—but he was as far as ever from carrying out his purpose. He noticed, however, that there was a little notch in the sharp edge of the chisel, just the width of a hair. Thibault sighed; he understood now that this hair, the price he had paid in return for his wish, belonged to the black wolf, and he gave up all further attempts to get rid of it.
(37-39)
Dumas, Alexandre. 1868. Le meneur de loups. (Nouvelle édition). Paris: Lévy.
PDF at:
https://archive.org/det ails/bub_gb_BhlMAAAAMAAJ/page/n5
and:
https://beq.ebooksgratuits.com/vents/Dumas-meneur.pdf
Online text at:
https://fr.wikisource.org/wik i/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/wolfle ader00duma
or:
https://archive.org/details/wo lfleader00dumauoft
Online text at:
.
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