The Wolf-Leader

VII

TWELVE years had passed since Mocquet’s nightmare, and I was now over fifteen years of age. It was the winter of 1817 to 1818; ten years before that date I had, alas! lost my father.

We no longer had a Pierre for gardener, a Hippolyte for valet, or a Mocquet for keeper; we no longer lived at the Château of Les Fossés or in the villa at Antilly, but in the market-place of Villers Cotterets, in a little house opposite the fountain, where my mother kept a bureau de tabac, selling powder and shot as well over the same counter.

As you have already read in my Mémoires, although still young, I was an enthusiastic sportsman. As far as sport went, however, that is according to the usual acceptation of the word, I had none, except when my cousin, M. Deviolaine, the ranger of the forest at Villers-Cotterets, was kind enough to ask leave of my mother to take me with him. I filled up the remainder of my time with poaching.

For this double function of sportsman and poacher I was well provided with a delightful single-barrelled gun, on which was engraven the monogram of the Princess Borghese, to whom it had originally belonged. My father had given it me when I was a child, and when, after his death, everything had to be sold, I implored so urgently to be allowed to keep my gun, that it was not sold with the other weapons, and the horses and carriages.

The most enjoyable time for me was the winter; then the snow lay on the ground, and the birds, in their search for food, were ready to come wherever grain was sprinkled for them. Some of my father’s old friends had fine gardens, and I was at liberty to go and shoot the birds there as I liked. So I used to sweep the snow away, spread some grain, and, hiding myself within easy gun-shot, fire at the birds, sometimes killing six, eight, or even ten at a time.

Then, if the snow lasted, there was another thing to look forward to, – the chance of tracing a wolf to its lair, and a wolf so traced was everybody’s property. The wolf, being a public enemy, a murderer beyond the pale of the law, might be shot at by all or anyone, and so, in spite of my mother’s cries, who dreaded the double danger for me, you need not ask if I seized my gun, and was first on the spot ready for sport.

The winter of 1817 to 1818 had been long and severe; the snow was lying a foot deep on the ground, and so hard frozen that it had held for a fortnight past, and still there were no tidings of anything.

Towards four o’clock one afternoon Mocquet called upon us; he had come to lay in his stock of powder. While so doing, he looked at me and winked with one eye. When he went out, I followed.

“What is it, Mocquet?” I asked, “tell me.”

“Can’t you guess, Monsieur Alexandre?”

“No, Mocquet.”

“You don’t guess, then, that if I come and buy powder here from Madame, your mother, instead of going to Haramont for it, – in short, if I walk three miles instead of only a quarter that distance, that I might possibly have a bit of a shoot to propose to you?”

“Oh, you good Mocquet! and what and where?”

“There’s a wolf, Monsieur Alexandre.”

“Not really?”

“He carried off one of M. Destournelles’ sheep last night, I have traced him to the Tillet woods.”

“And what then?”

“Why then, I am certain to see him again to-night, and shall find out where his lair is, and to-morrow morning we’ll finish his business for him.”

“Oh, this is luck!”

“Only, we must first ask leave…”

“Of whom, Mocquet?”

“Leave of Madame.”

“All right, come in, then, we will ask her at once.”

My mother had been watching us through the window; she suspected that some plot was hatching between us.

“I have no patience with you, Mocquet,” she said, as we went in, “you have no sense or discretion.”

“In what way, Madame?” asked Mocquet.

“To go exciting him in the way you do; he thinks too much of sport as it is.”

“Nay, Madame, it is with him, as with dogs of breed; his father was a sportsman, he is a sportsman, and his son will be a sportsman after him; you must make up your mind to that.”

“And supposing some harm should come to him?”

“Harm come to him with me? With Mocquet? No, indeed! I will answer for it with my own life, that he shall be safe. Harm happen to him, to him, the General’s son? Never, never, never!”

But my poor mother shook her head; I went to her and flung my arms round her neck.

“Mother, dearest,” I cried, “please let me go.”

“You will load his gun for him, then, Mocquet?”

“Have no fear, sixty grains of powder, not a grain more or less, and a twenty to the pound bullet.”

“And you will not leave him?”

“I will stay by him like his shadow.”

“You will keep him near you?”

“Between my legs.”

“I give him into your sole charge, Mocquet.”

“And he shall be given back to you safe and sound. Now, Monsieur Alexandre, gather up your traps, and let us be off; your mother has given her permission.”

“You are not taking him away this evening, Mocquet.”

“I must, Madame, to-morrow morning will be too late to fetch him; we must hunt the wolf at dawn.”

“The wolf! it is for a wolf-hunt that you are asking for him to go with you?”

“Are you afraid that the wolf will eat him?”

“Mocquet! Mocquet!”

“But when I tell you that I will be answerable for everything!”

“And where will the poor child sleep?”

“With father Mocquet, of course, he will have a good mattress laid on the floor, and sheets white as those which God has spread over the fields, and two good warm coverlids; I promise you that he shall not catch cold.”

“I shall be all right, mother, you may be sure! Now then, Mocquet, I am ready.”

“And you don’t even give me a kiss, you poor boy, you!”

“Indeed, yes, dear mother, and a good many more than one!”

And I threw myself on my mother’s neck, stifling her with my caresses as I clasped her in my arms.

“And when shall I see you again?”

“Oh, do not be uneasy if he does not return before to-morrow evening.”

“How, to-morrow evening! and you spoke of starting at dawn!”

“At dawn for the wolf; but if we miss him, the lad must have a shot or two at the wild ducks on the marshes of Vallue.”

“I see! you are going to drown him for me!”

“By the name of all that’s good, Madame, if I was not speaking to the General’s widow – I should say – ”

“What Mocquet? What would you say?”

“That you will make nothing but a wretched milksop of your boy… If the General’s mother had been always behind him, pulling at his coat-tails, as you are behind this child, he would never even have had the courage to cross the sea to France.”

“You are right, Mocquet! take him away! I am a poor fool.”

And my mother turned aside, to wipe away a tear.

A mother’s tear, that heart’s diamond, more precious than all the pearls of Ophir! I saw it running down her cheek. I ran to the poor woman, and whispered to her, “Mother, if you like, I will stay at home.”

“No, no, go, my child,” she said, “Mocquet is right; you must, sooner or later, learn to be a man.”

I gave her another last kiss; then I ran after Mocquet, who had already started.

After I had gone a few paces, I looked round; my mother had run into the middle of the road, that she might keep me in sight as long as possible; it was my turn now to wipe away a tear.

“How now?” said Mocquet, “you crying too, Monsieur Alexandre!”

“Nonsense, Mocquet! it’s only the cold makes my eyes run.”

But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying.

VIII

IT was pitch dark when we reached Mocquet’s house. We had a savoury omelette and stewed rabbit for supper, and then Mocquet made my bed ready for me. He kept his word to my mother, for I had a good mattress, two white sheets and two good warm coverlids.

“Now,” said Mocquet, “tuck yourself in there, and go to sleep; we may probably have to be off at four o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“At any hour you like, Mocquet.”

“Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and to-morrow morning I shall have to throw a jug of cold water over you to make you get up.”

“You are welcome to do that, Mocquet, if you have to call me twice.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Are you in a hurry to go to sleep, Mocquet?”

“Why, whatever do you want me to do at this hour of the night?”

“I thought, perhaps, Mocquet, you would tell me one of those stories that I used to find so amusing when I was a child.”

“And who is going to get up for me at two o’clock to-morrow, if I sit telling you tales till midnight? Our good priest, perhaps?”

“You are right, Mocquet.”

“It’s fortunate you think so!”

So I undressed and went to bed. Five minutes later Mocquet was snoring like a bass viol.

I turned and twisted for a good two hours before I could get to sleep. How many sleepless nights have I not passed on the eve of the first shoot of the season! At last, towards midnight fatigue gained the mastery over me. A sudden sensation of cold awoke me with a start at four o’clock in the morning; I opened my eyes. Mocquet had thrown my bed-clothes off over the foot of the bed, and was standing beside me, leaning both hands on his gun, his face beaming out upon me, as, at every fresh puff of his short pipe, the light from it illuminated his features.

“Well, how have you got on, Mocquet?”

“He has been tracked to his lair.”

“The wolf? and who tracked him?”

“This foolish old Mocquet.”

“Bravo!”

“But guess where he has chosen to take covert, this most accommodating of good wolves!”

“Where was it then, Mocquet?”

“If I gave you a hundred chances you wouldn’t guess! in the Three Oaks Covert.”

“We’ve got him, then?”

“I should rather think so.”

The Three Oaks Covert is a patch of trees and undergrowth, about two acres in extent, situated in the middle of the plain of Largny, about five hundred paces from the forest.

“And the keepers?” I went on.

“All had notice sent them,” replied Mocquet; “Moynat, Mildet, Vatrin, Lafeuille, all the best shots in short, are waiting in readiness just outside the forest. You and I, with Monsieur Charpentier, from Vallue, Monsieur Hochedez, from Largny, Monsieur Destournelles, from Les Fossés, are to surround the Covert; the dogs will be slipped, the field-keeper will go with them, and we shall have him, that’s certain.”

“You’ll put me in a good place, Mocquet?”

“Haven’t I said that you will be near me; but you must get up first.”

“That’s true – Brrou!”

“And I am going to have pity on your youth and put a bundle of wood in the fire-place.”

“I didn’t dare ask for it; but, on my word of honour, it will be kind of you if you will.”

Mocquet went out and brought in an armful of wood from the timber-yard, and threw it on to the hearth, poking it down with his foot; then he threw a lighted match among the twigs, and in another moment the clear bright flames were dancing and crackling up the chimney. I went and sat on the stool by the fireside, and there dressed myself; you may be sure that I was not long over my toilette; even Mocquet was astonished at my celerity.

“Now, then,” he said, “a drop of this, and then off!” And saying this, he filled two small glasses with a yellowish coloured liquor, which did not require any tasting on my part to recognize.

“You know I never drink brandy, Mocquet.”

“Ah, you are your father’s son, all over! What will you have, then?”

“Nothing, Mocquet, nothing.”

“You know the proverb: ‘Leave the house empty; the devil will be there.’ Believe me, you had better put something into your stomach, while I load your gun, for I must keep my promise to that poor mother of yours.”

“Well, then, I will have a crust of bread and a glass of pignolet.” Pignolet is a light wine made in non-winegrowing districts, generally said to require three men to drink it, one to drink, and two to hold him; I was, however, pretty well accustomed to pignolet, and could drink it up without help. So I swallowed my glass of wine while Mocquet loaded my gun.

“What are you doing, Mocquet?” I asked him.

“Making a cross on your bullet,” he replied. “As you will be near me, we shall probably let fly together, and, although I know you would give me up your share, still, for the glory of it, it will be as well to know which of us killed him, if the wolf falls. So, mind you aim straight.”

“I’ll do my best, Mocquet.”

“Here’s your gun, then, loaded for bird-shooting; and now, gun over your shoulder, and off we start.”

IX

THE meeting-place was on the road leading to Chavigny. Here we found the keepers and some of the huntsmen, and within another ten minutes those who were missing had also joined us. Before five o’clock struck, our number was complete, and then we held a council of war to decide our further proceedings. It was finally arranged that we should first take up our position round the Three Oaks Covert at some considerable distance from it, and then gradually advance so as to form a cordon round it. Everything was to be done with the utmost silence, it being well known that wolves decamp on hearing the slightest noise. Each of us was ordered to look carefully along the path he followed, to make quite sure that the wolf had not left the covert. Meanwhile the field-keeper was holding Mocquet’s hounds in leash.

One by one we took our stand facing the covert, on the spot to which our particular path had conducted us. As it happened, Mocquet and I found ourselves on the north side of the warren, which was parallel with the forest.

Mocquet had rightly said that we should be in the best place, for the wolf would in all probability try and make for the forest, and so would break covert on our side of it.

We took our stand, each in front of an oak tree, fifty paces apart from one another, and then we waited, without moving, and hardly daring to breathe. The dogs on the farther side of the warren were now uncoupled; they gave two short barks, and were then silent. The keeper followed them into the covert, calling halloo as he beat the trees with his stick. But the dogs, their eyes starting out of their heads, their lips drawn back, and their coats bristling, remained as if nailed to the ground. Nothing would induce them to move a step further.

“Halloa, Mocquet!” cried the keeper, “this wolf of yours must be an extra plucky one, Rocador and Tombelle refuse to tackle him.”

But Mocquet was too wise to make any answer, for the sound of his voice would have warned the wolf that there were enemies in that direction.

The keeper went forward, still beating the trees, the two dogs after him cautiously advancing step by step, without a bark, only now and then giving a low growl.

All of a sudden there was a loud exclamation from the keeper, who called out, “I nearly trod on his tail! the wolf! the wolf! Look out, Mocquet, look out!”

And at that moment something came rushing towards us, and the animal leapt out of the covert, passing between us like a flash of lightning. It was an enormous wolf, nearly white with age. Mocquet turned and sent two bullets after him; I saw them bound and rebound along the snow.

“Shoot, shoot!” he called out to me.

Only then did I bring my gun to the shoulder; I took aim, and fired; the wolf made a movement as if he wanted to bite his shoulder.

“We have him! we have him!” cried Mocquet, “the lad has hit his mark! Success to the innocent!”

But the wolf ran on, making straight for Moynat and Mildet, the two best shots in the country round.

Both their first shots were fired at him in the open; the second, after he had entered the forest.

The two first bullets were seen to cross one another, and ran along the ground, sending up spurts of snow; the wolf had escaped them both, but he had no doubt been struck down by the others; that the two keepers who had just fired should miss their aim, was an un-heard of thing. I had seen Moynat kill seventeen snipe one after the other; I had seen Mildet cut a squirrel in two as he was jumping from tree to tree.

The keepers went into the forest after the wolf; we looked anxiously towards the spot where they had disappeared. We saw them reappear, dejected, and shaking their heads.

“Well?” cried Mocquet interrogatively.

“Bah!” answered Mildet, with an impatient movement of his arm, “he’s at Taille-Fontaine by this time.”

“At Taille-Fontaine!” exclaimed Mocquet, completely taken aback. “What! the fools have gone and missed him, then!”

“Well, what of that? you missed him yourself, did you not?”

Mocquet shook his head.

“Well, well, there’s some devilry about this,” he said. “That I should miss him was surprising, but it was perhaps possible; but that Moynat should have shot twice and missed him is not possible, no, I say, no.”

“Nevertheless, so it is, my good Mocquet.”

“Besides, you, you hit him,” he said to me.

“I!.. are you sure?”

“We others may well be ashamed to say it. But as sure as my name is Mocquet, you hit the wolf.”

“Well, it’s easy to find out if I did hit him, there would be blood on the snow. – Come, Mocquet, let us run and see.” And suiting the action to the word, I set off running.

“Stop, stop, do not run, whatever you do,” cried Mocquet, clenching his teeth and stamping. “We must go quietly, until we know better what we have to deal with.”

“Well, we will go quietly, then; but at any rate, let us go!”

Mocquet then began to follow the wolf’s track, step by step.

“There’s not much fear of losing it,” I said.

“It’s plain enough.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for, then?”

“You will know in a minute or two.”

The other huntsmen had now joined us, and as they came along after us, the keeper related to them what had taken place. Meanwhile, Mocquet and I continued to follow the wolf’s footprints, which were deeply indented in the snow. At last we came to the spot where he had received my fire.

“There, Mocquet,” I said to him, “you see I did miss him after all!”

“How do you know that you missed him?”

“Because there are no blood marks.”

“Look for the mark of your bullet, then, in the snow.”

I looked to see which way my bullet would have sped if it had not hit the wolf, and then went in that direction; but I tracked for more than a quarter of a mile to no purpose, so I thought I might as well go back to Mocquet. He beckoned to the keepers to approach, and then turning to me, said: —

“Well, and the bullet?”

“I cannot find it.”

“I have been luckier than you, then, for I have found it.”

“What, you found it?”

“Right about and come behind me.”

I did as I was told, and the huntsmen having come up, Mocquet pointed out a line to them beyond which they were not to pass. The keepers Mildet and Moynat now joined us. “Well?” said Mocquet to them in their turn.

“Missed,” they both answered at once.

“I saw you had missed him in the open, but when he had reached covert …?”

“Missed him there too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Both the bullets have been found, each of them in the trunk of a tree.”

“It is almost past belief,” said Vatrin.

“Yes,” rejoined Mocquet, “it is almost past belief, but I have something to show you which is even more difficult to believe.”

“Show it us, then.”

“Look there, what do you see on the snow?”

“The track of a wolf; what of that?”

“And close to the mark of the right foot – there – what do you see?”

“A little hole.”

“Well, do you understand?”

The keepers looked at each other in astonishment.

“Do you understand now?” repeated Mocquet.

“The thing’s impossible!” exclaimed the keepers.

“Nevertheless it is so, and I will prove it to you.”

And so saying, Mocquet plunged his hand into the snow, felt about a moment or two, and then, with a cry of triumph, pulled out a flattened bullet.

“Why, that’s my bullet,” I said.

“You recognise it, then?”

“Of course I do, you marked it for me.”

“And what mark did I put on it?”

“A cross.”

“You see, sirs,” said Mocquet.

“Yes, but explain how this happened.”

“This is it; he could turn aside the ordinary bullets, but he had no power over the youngster’s, which was marked with a cross; it hit him in the shoulder, I saw him make a movement as if to try and bite himself.”

“But,” I broke in, astonished at the silence and amazement which had fallen on the keepers, “if my bullet hit him in the shoulder, why did it not kill him?”

“Because it was made neither of gold nor of silver, my dear boy; and because no bullets but those that are made of gold or silver can pierce the skin of the devil, or kill those who have made a compact with him.”

“But, Mocquet,” said the keepers, shuddering, “do you really think …?”

“Think? Yes, I do! I could swear that we have had to do this morning with Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf.”

The huntsman and keepers looked at one another; two or three of them made the sign of the cross; and they all appeared to share Mocquet’s opinion, and to know quite well what he meant by Thibault’s wolf. I, alone, knew nothing about it, and therefore asked impatiently, “What is this wolf, and who is this Thibault, the sabot-maker?”

Mocquet hesitated before replying, then, “Ah! to be sure!” he exclaimed, “the General told me that I might let you know about it when you were fifteen. You are that age now, are you not?”

“I am sixteen,” I replied with some pride.

“Well, then, my dear Monsieur Alexandre, Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf, is the devil. You were asking me last night for a tale, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Come back home with me this morning, then, and I will tell you a tale, and a fine one too.”

The keepers and huntsmen shook hands with one another in silence and separated, each going his own way; I went back with Mocquet, who then told me the tale which you shall now hear.

Perhaps you will ask me why, having heard it so long ago, I have not told it before. I can only answer you by saying it has remained hidden away in a drawer of my memory, which has remained closed ever since, and which I only opened again three days ago. I would tell you what induced me to do this, but you might, I fear, find the recital somewhat tedious, and as it would take time, I prefer starting at once upon my tale.

I say my tale; I ought perhaps to call it Mocquet’s tale – but, upon my word! when you have been sitting on an egg for thirty-eight years, you may be excused for coming to believe at last that you’ve laid it yourself!

CHAPTER I

THE GRAND MASTER OF HIS HIGHNESS’ WOLF HOUNDS

THE Seigneur Jean, Baron of Vez, was a hardy and indefatigable sportsman.

If you follow the beautiful valley which runs between Berval and Longpré, you will see, on your left hand, an old tower, which by reason of its isolated position will appear doubly high and formidable to you.

At the present moment it belongs to an old friend of the writer of this tale, and everyone is now so accustomed to its forbidding aspect, that the peasant passing that way in summer has no more fear of seeking shelter from the heat beneath its walls than the martins with their long black wings and shrill cries, and the swallows with their soft chirrupings, have of building their nests under its eaves.

But at the time we are now speaking of, somewhere about 1780, this lordly dwelling of Vez was looked upon with different eyes, and, it must be confessed, it did not then offer so safe a place of retreat. It was a building of the twelfth or thirteenth century, rugged and gloomy, its terrifying exterior having assumed no kindlier aspect as the years rolled by. True, the sentinel with his measured tread and flashing steel-cap no longer paced its ramparts, the archer with his shrill-sounding horn no longer kept watch and ward on the battlements; true the postern was no longer guarded by true men at arms, ready at the least signal of danger to lower the portcullis and draw up the bridge; but the solitude alone which surrounded this grim giant of granite was sufficient to inspire the feeling of awe-inspiring majesty awakened by all mute and motionless things.