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 wolfs 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 wolfs 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!
CHAPTER I
THE GRAND MASTER OF HIS HIGHNESS’ WOLF HOUNDS
The Seigneur Jean, Baron of Vez, was a hardy and indefatigable sportsman.
If you follow the beautiful valley which runs between Berval and Longpre, you will see, on your left hand, an old tower, which by reason of its isolated position will appear doubly high and formidable to you.
At the present moment it belongs to an old friend of the writer of this tale, and everyone is now so accustomed to its for bidding aspect, that the peasant passing that way in summer has no more fear of seeking shelter from the heat beneath its walls than the martins with their long, black wings and shrill cries, and the swallows with their soft chirrupings, have of building their nests under its eaves.
But at the time we are now speaking of, somewhere about 1780, this lordly dwelling of Vez was looked upon with different eyes, and, it must be confessed, it did not then offer so safe a place of retreat. It was a building of the twelfth or thirteenth century, rugged and gloomy, its terrifying exterior having assumed no kindlier aspect as the years rolled by. True, the sentinel with his measured tread and flashing steel-cap no longer paced its ramparts, the archer with his shrill-sounding horn no longer kept watch and ward on the battlements; true the postern was no longer guarded by true men at arms, ready at the least signal of danger to lower the portcullis and draw up the bridge; but the solitude alone which surrounded this grim giant of granite was sufficient to inspire the feeling of awe-inspiring majesty awakened by all mute and motionless things.
The lord of this old fortress, however, was by no means so much to be dreaded; those who were more intimately acquainted with him than were the peasants, and could do him more justice, asserted that his bark was worse than his bite, and that he caused more fear than harm that is, among his fellow Christians. With the animals of the forest it was different, for he was avowedly their mortal and implacable enemy.
He was chief wolf-hunter to his Royal Highness Louis Philippe of Orleans, the fourth of that name, a post which allowed him to gratify the inordinate passion he had for the chase. Although it was not easy, it was yet possible to bring the Baron to listen to reason in other matters; but as regards the chase, if once he had got a fixed idea in his head, nothing would satisfy him until he had carried it out and had achieved his purpose.
His wife, according to report, was the natural daughter of the Prince, which, in conjunction with his title of chief wolf-hunter, gave him almost absolute power throughout the domains of his illustrious father-in-law, a power which no one dared to contest with him, especially after the re-marriage of his Royal Highness with Madame de Montesson. This had taken place in 1773, since which date he had almost abandoned his castle at Villers-Cotterets for his delightful residence at Bagnolet, where he entertained all the first wits of the day and amused himself with play-acting.
And so, whether the sun was shining to rejoice the earth, or the rain was saddening it, whether the winter fields lay hidden beneath a shroud of snow, or the spring had spread her fresh green carpet over the meadows, it was rare, on any day of the year, not to see the great gates of the Castle thrown wide open between eight and nine o’clock in the morning, and first the Baron come forth, and immediately after him his chief pricker, Marcotte, followed by the other prickers. Then appeared the dogs, coupled and held in leash by the keepers of the hounds, under the superintendence of Engoulevent, who aspired to become a pricker. Even as the German executioner walks alone, behind the nobles and in front of the citizens, to show that he is the least of the former and the first of the latter, so he walked immediately after the prickers and ahead of the keepers of the hounds, as being the chief of the whippers-in and least of the prickers.
The whole procession filed out of the castle court in full hunting array, with the English horses and the French hounds; twelve horses, and forty dogs.
Before we go any farther, let me say that with these twelve horses and forty dogs the Baron hunted every sort of quarry, but more especially the wolf, in order no doubt to do honour to his title.
No further proof will be needed by the genuine sportsman of the fine faith he had in the general quality of his hounds, and in their keenness of scent, than the fact that next to the wolf he gave preference to the boar, then to the red deer, then to the fallow-deer, and lastly to the roebuck; finally, if the keepers of the pack failed to sight the animal they had tracked, he uncoupled at random, and went after the first hare that crossed his path. For, as we have already stated, the worthy Baron went out hunting every day, and he would sooner have gone for four-and-twenty hours without food or drink, although he was often thirsty, than have spent that time without seeing his hounds run.
But, as everybody knows, however swift the horses, and however keen the dogs, hunting has its bad times as well as its good.
One day, Marcotte came up to where the Baron was awaiting him, with a crestfallen expression of countenance.
“How now, Marcotte,” asked the Baron frowning, “what is the matter this time? I see by your face we are to expect bad sport to-day.”
Marcotte shook his head.
“Speak up, man,” continued the Baron with a gesture of impatience.
“The matter is, my Lord, that the black wolf is about.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the Baron, his eyes sparkling; for you must know that this made the fifth or sixth time that the worthy Baron had started the animal in question, but never once had he been able to get within gun-shot of him or to run him down.
“Yes,” Marcotte went on, “but the damned beast has employed himself so well all night crossing his track and doubling, that after having traced him over half the forest, I found myself at the place from which I started.”
“You think then, Marcotte, that there is no chance of getting near him.”
“I am afraid not.”
“By all the devils in hell! exclaimed the Lord of Vez, who had not had his equal in swearing since the mighty Nimrod, “however, I am not feeling well to-day, and I must have a burst of some kind, to get rid of these bad humours. What do you think we can hunt, Marcotte, in place of this damned black wolf?”
“Well, having been so taken up with the wolf,” answered Marcotte, “I have not traced any other animal. Will my Lord uncouple at random and hunt the first animal that we come across?”
The Baron was about to express his willingness to agree to this proposal when he caught sight of little Engoulevent coming towards them cap in hand.
“Wait a moment,” he said, “here comes Engoulevent, who, I fancy, has some advice to give us.”
“I have no advice to give to a noble Lord like yourself,” replied Engouleven
t, assuming an expression of humility on his sly and crafty face; “it is, however, my duty to inform you that there is a splendid buck in the neighbourhood.”
“Let us see your buck, Engoulevent,” replied the chief wolf-hunter, “and if you are not mistaken about it, there will be a new crown for you.”
“Where is this buck of yours?” asked Marcotte, “but look to your skin, if you make us uncouple to no purpose.”
“Let me have Matador and Jupiter, and then we shall see.” Matador and Jupiter were the finest among the hounds belonging to the Lord of Vez. And indeed, Engoulevent had not gone a hundred paces with them through the thicket, before, by the lashing of their tails, and their repeated yelping, he knew that they were on the right scent. In another minute or two a magnificent ten-tined stag came into view. Marcotte cried Tally-ho, sounded his horn, and the hunt began, to the great satisfaction of the Lord of Vez, who, although regretting the black wolf, was willing to make the best of a fine buck in its stead. The hunt had lasted two hours, and the quarry still held on. It had first led its pursuers from the little wood of Haramont to the Chemin du Pendu, and thence straight to the back of Oigny, and it still showed no sign of fatigue; for it was not one of those poor animals of the flat country who get their tails pulled by every wretched terrier.
As it neared the low grounds of Bourg-Fontaine, however, it evidently decided that it was being run rather hard, for it gave up the bolder measures which had hitherto enabled it to keep ahead, and began to double.
Its first manoeuvre was to go down to the brook which joins the ponds of Baisemont and Bourg, then to walk against stream with the water up to its haunches, for nearly half a mile; it then sprang on to the right bank, back again into the bed of the stream, made another leap to the left, and with a succession of bounds, as vigorous as its failing strength allowed, continued to out-distance its pursuers. But the dogs of my lord Baron were not animals to be put out by such trifles as these. Being both sagacious and well-bred, they, of their own accord, divided the task between themselves, half going up stream, and half down, these hunting on the right those on the left, and so effectually that they ere long put the animal off its changes, for they soon recovered the scent, rallying at the first cry given by one of the pack, and starting afresh on the chase, as ready and eager as if the deer had been only twenty paces in front of them.
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