If, therefore, the sportsman in traversing the depths of the forest should chance to discover one of these mirrors of the passing butterfly, of the flower which inclines its slender form towards it, or of the bird that sings and plays in the branches that overspread its surface, he must not look contemptuously upon it, for this little liquid pearl, thus concealed in the shade, which the hot rays of the sun would dry up like an Arabian well, if they could reach it, may prove to him a mine of varied reflections—a page of nature's great book, and in it he may possibly find, if he have an observing eye and an understanding heart, a type of this lower world, with all its hateful passions, its follies and virtues, its wars, rivalries, injustice and oppression.

One day, when out shooting, and following by tortuous paths, to me unknown, the bleeding traces of a roebuck which I had wounded, I had the good fortune to meet with one of these Mares. The piece of water of which I thus became what I may term the proprietor, was from fifty to sixty feet in circumference, though at the first glance I fancied it was only half the size, so completely was it covered near the side by thorns and briars, and in the centre by lilies, flags, and other aquatic plants. By certain other signs, also, the gigantic creepers, and the barkless and headless trees, bending and falling with age; by the deep thickets that surrounded it, and by the solitary aspect of the pool, I felt convinced that mine was the first footstep that had trodden its precincts,—that I was the Christopher Columbus of the place.

Enchanted with my discovery, I determined to mark the spot, for I thought it a Mare of peculiar beauty. It was almost surrounded by wild fruit trees, which grow in great numbers in our forests: here were the sorb, or service tree, and the medlar, bending to the ground under the weight of their luxuriant fruit; intermingled with these waved the lofty and slender branches of the wild cherry, the berries of which, now ripe, and sweet as drops of honey, and black as polished jet, offered a delicious repast to clouds of little birds, that hopped chirruping from twig to twig: and lastly, I may mention a fine arbutus, which in its turn presented a tempting collation to the notice of many a hungry bullfinch. The soft turf around was strewed with the shining black and bright red berries, which the last breeze had shaken from the verdant branches.

To describe the crystal notes, the liquid cadences, the merry songs of the feathered inhabitants of this hive, that pursued one another rejoicing amongst the leaves, is impossible. Besides, my unexpected appearance threw them into perfect consternation; and this greatly increased when, drawing from my side my hunting-knife, I began to cut down, in all directions, the bushes which intercepted a nearer approach to the miniature lake.

The storm of helpless anger, menaces, and complaints from these little creatures was quite curious. "Oh! the wretch!" a cuckoo seemed to say; "what does he mean by coming here, showing us his ugly face?"—"Oh! the horror," cried a coquette of a tomtit, holding up her little claw.—"Helas! helas! our poor trees, our beautiful leaves, and our lovely greensward—see how he is cutting away—Oh! the wicked man! the destructive rascal!" they all piped in chorus. But I paid no attention to them, and went on hacking away, and whistling like one of the blackbirds. This indeed I continued to do for several days, working like a woodman, and all alone, for I did not wish to associate myself with any person, lest he should claim a share in my discovery; but it was long before I began to enjoy the fruits of my hard labour. The trunks were sawn, the branches lopped, and after considerable trouble I at last cleared my piece of water from the bushes and parasitic plants which blocked it up. The evening breeze now circulated rapidly over it, and the sun could look in upon it for at least two hours of the day.

My friends who saw me leave the house every morning with a basket of tools at my back and a hatchet at my side, like Robinson Crusoe, and who witnessed my return each evening heartily tired, with torn clothes, scratched hands, and dust and perspiration on my face, without a single head of game in my bag, could not comprehend why I went out thus alone into the forest, and remained there the livelong day. Often did they persecute me with questions, and try in every way to penetrate the mystery; all in vain, my whereabouts remained hidden like a hedgehog in his prickly coat, and I managed matters so well that during two successive years I was the unknown proprietor and Grand Sultan of my much-loved Mare.

But when my task was finished, a task that hundreds of birds, perched in the oaks, the elms, and the adjoining thickets, viewed with mingled feelings of approbation, disapprobation, curiosity, or interest,—when the last stroke of my hatchet was given, I said to myself, while looking on the result of my unremitting toil, "'Tis well, and what a change has taken place in this little corner of the forest. In truth, it looks superb."

The little lake was now a perfect oval, and the water, not very deep, but limpid as crystal, was full of green and coloured rushes—the surface being partly covered by the white and rose-tinted flowers of the water-lilies, which reposing delicately on their large flat green leaves, looked like velvet camellias placed upon a plate of sea-green porcelain. In the mossy turf which bordered it, beds of violets, pink daisies, and lilies of the valley, sent forth a cloud of perfume, and on the large forest trees hung festoons and garlands of the honeysuckle and the clematis; so that the Mare and the surrounding foliage, would, seen from above, have appeared like a large well with leafy walls, or an immense emerald, which some spirit of the air, returning from a marriage of the gods, had inadvertently dropped on his way home.

Having given a description of the lake, I must describe my picturesque and sylvan hut. This, constructed of trunks of trees, branches and osiers, was placed about twenty paces from the water, completely concealed by the bushes that encircled it; the inside was fitted up in rustic taste with seats of wood, the whole carpeted with turf, and the entrance planted with every kind of odoriferous flower.

This Mare, approached by marks known only to myself, became thenceforward the source of all my pleasures. At that period very young, and equally careless, I would not have parted with my large liquid tazza, my little lake, my leafy castle, for all the vulgar comfortable chateaux in the neighbourhood.

If I have lingered too much over this subject, the reader must forgive me for elaborating this picture—this portrait I may call it of my Mare. He has before him a type of all the others, and this again must be my excuse, it is so dear to the unfortunate to stir the still warm embers of by-gone memories,—so dear to rouse from their slumbers the treasured recollections of early days,—to wake those sweet spirits of the mind, those phantoms robed in azure blue, and decked with the pearls, the joys which never can glide again across the dreamer's path—the joys of youth.

Oh souvenirs of childhood!—of happy hours so quickly gone,—bright visions that gild, yes, light the darkest clouds of after years, blessed, blessed are ye! Alone, friendless, far from those I love, with the heart steeped, drowned in sorrow, a sombre sky before my eyes, wintry clouds, that distil but melancholy thoughts all around me,—well, I, the poor sparrow, who has been cast from his nest by the raging storm,—I hush my griefs to rest in tracing the picture of past delights. Yes, memory comes to my relief; I build again in the casket of the mind my sylvan hut, careless and full of youthful fancies. I am again seated in the depths of my native woods, speaking to the light-hearted thrush, and whistling to the breeze.

Once more I bathe myself in the golden rays of the mid-day sun; I tread again the forest paths, and am intoxicated with the delicious perfume of its wild flowers. Hark! again I hear the cooing of the amorous doves, and in the distance the notes of the dull cuckoo, bewailing his solitary life.—But no more....

The Mares, very different from one another, and having each of them very different admirers, are of three kinds; they are either small or large, near or distant from the village or neighbouring hamlet; and according as they are circumstanced in one or other of these respects they are more or less valuable. The largest, the deepest, the least known, those in short that are situated in the recesses of the forest, are the best and most frequented by game; to balance this advantage they are the most fatiguing and the most difficult to approach.

In the violent heats of July and August, when the sun burns up the herbage, when the wind as it passes parches the skin, and the sultry air scarcely allows the lungs to play—when the earth is quite dried up—the hot-blooded animals, whose circulation is rapid, remain completely overpowered with the heat in their retreats all day, either stretched panting on the leaves, or lurking in the shade of some rock; but the moment the sun, in amber clouds, sinks below the horizon, and twilight brings in his train the dark hours of night, and its humid vapours, the beasts of the forest are again in movement, again their ravenous appetite returns, and they lose no time in ranging the woods, seeking how and where they may gratify it. Then it is these large Mares, silent as a woman that listens at a keyhole—silent as a catacomb, is all at once endowed with life,—is filled with strange noises, like an aviary, and becomes, as night falls, a common centre to which the hungry and thirsty cavalcade direct their steps.

The first arrivals are hundreds of birds, of every size and colour, who come to gossip, to bathe, to drink, and splash the water with their wings. Next come troops of hares and rabbits, who come to nibble the fresh grass that grows there in great luxuriance. As the shades grow deeper, groups of the graceful roebuck, timid and listening for anticipated danger, their large open eyes gazing at each tree, giving an inquiring look at every shadow, are seen approaching with noiseless footsteps; when reassured by their careful reconnaissance, they steal forward, cropping the dewy rich flowers as they come, and at last slake their thirst in the refreshing waters.

At this instant you may, if you are fatigued, and so desire it, finish your day's sport. You may bring down the nearest buck; and then as the troop, wild with affright, make for the forest, the second barrel will add a fellow to your first victim.

But, no! pull not the trigger; stop, if only to witness what follows. See the roebuck prick their ears; they turn to the wind; they appear uneasy; call one to the other, assemble; danger is near, they feel it, hear it coming; they would fly, but find it is too late; terrified, they are chained to the spot. For the last half hour the wolves and wolverines, which followed gently, and at a distance, their own more rapid movements, have closed in upon them from behind, have formed the fatal circle, have noiselessly decreased it as much as possible, and at length come swiftly down upon the helpless creatures; each seizes his victim by the throat, the tranquil spot is ere long full of blood and carnage, and the echoes of the forest are awakened to the hellish yells of the savage brutes that thus devour their prey.

The cries of agony, of death and victory, sometimes last for a quarter of an hour; and during the fifteen minutes that you are watching the scene from your hut, you may fancy the teeth of these brutes are meeting in your own flesh, and feel a cold paw with claws of steel deep in your back or head.

The slaughter over, these monsters pass like a flight of demons across the turf, vanish,—and again all is silent. And when the tenth chime of the distant village clock is floating on the breeze, though it reaches not your cabin—when the falling dew, now almost a shower, has bathed the leaves, with rain chilling their fibres—when the bluebells and the foxgloves and all the wood-flowers rest upon their stems—when the songsters of the grove, with heads comfortably tucked under their warm wings, sleep soundly in their nests, or in the angles of the branches—when the young fawns, lost in some wild ravine, bleat for their mothers whom they never will see more; and the gorged wolves, their muzzles red with blood, are stretched snoring in their dens and lurking-places—then it is the heavy boars, shaking off their laziness, leave their sombre retreats—take to the open country, and trotting, grunting, and with hesitating footsteps, come and plunge their awkward and heavy bodies in the marshy waters, and wallow in the soft mud.

[1] Query,—fox-hunting and stag-hunting.—TRANSLATOR.



CHAPTER XIII.

Appearance of the Mare in the morning—Forest etiquette—Mode of obtaining possession of the best Mare—Every subterfuge fair—The jocose sportsman—The quarrel—Reveries in the hut—Comparison between meeting a lady and watching for a wolf.

The Mares on the borders of which these scenes of strife and carnage take place, are found by the morning sun surrounded by a crimson circle, and all the horrid details of the battle-field—proof that the weak have been slaughtered and overcome by the strong; a humiliating sight! for the desolation created by the bad passions of man is far too like it. Sometimes these Mares are from two to three hundred feet in circumference, and these may be truly termed the diamonds of the forest. The Mare No. 1., fed by small but always flowing springs, is full, when others are dried up, and is frequented by troops of animals, savage and meek, which thirst and heat drive there from all points of the compass. These Mares, but little known, few in number, much sought after—become, more especially at the period of the dog-days, very difficult to find. Considered always as the property of the first comer, the poacher, who is better acquainted than any other sportsman with the localities in which they are to be found, generally takes up his quarters near them late at night, and installs himself; sleeps there, sups there, and, determined not to leave it under any pretext, laughs in the face of the unfortunate wight who arrives after him, in the happy delusion that he has anticipated every one else. For it is a forest law, and acknowledged by all, that two sportsmen cannot, without disturbing one another, sit down at the same Mare; possession is in this not only nine but ten points of the law; and, if a mere lad, with a fowling-piece, happens to place himself first on its banks, no giant seven feet high would think of using his superior strength to expel him.

Such is the law—such is the custom—to act in defiance of it would expose the culprit to the chance of receiving a charge of No. 3 in his jacket; and as each Mare has its wooden hut, in successive summers, constructed by you, embellished by me, knocked in, cut about, injured by some one else, and repaired by all—the first man who puts the stock of his gun on the floor of the cabin becomes immediately and incontestibly the lucky proprietor of it for that night.

And how shall I explain to you the thousand cunning tricks, the diabolical, the ingenious finesses, the Philipistic and Machiavellian diplomacy, which sportsmen employ one towards the other to obtain possession? Two friends, for instance, meet by accident on the same road; with what perfect and impudent lies do they entertain each other!—with what gusto do they try and take one another in!—what cheating doubts do they not mutually endeavour to raise, in their desire to induce each other to take the wrong road! With the effrontery of a diplomate, with the assurance of a secretary of legation,—one affirms, his hand on his heart, and looking towards heaven, that he is going to the left, when it is his positive intention, well-considered beforehand, to go to the right. No, France and England, Bresson and Bulwer, playing their game of chess of the Spanish marriages on the green cloth of political rascality,—never said anything comparable to the devices of these lying chevaliers of the forest.

Everything is permitted—every stratagem is fair, so long as either is endeavouring to triumph over his adversary; and then, when they have gone so far as to be able to wish one another good afternoon, and each has convinced himself that he has put the other on the wrong road—that, thank the stars, his rival is off, that he is far off, that he cannot see him—what haste! what strides and leaps to get speedily to the spot, and make himself safe! The running of the celebrated Greek, who, with his breast laid open by a ghastly wound, ran eighty miles in ten hours to announce to the impatient Athenians the victory of Marathon, was the pace of a tortoise compared with the demon-racing of these chasseurs.

And, after all this anxiety and rapid locomotion,—after turning and winding in and out of the wood, and round the wood to avoid the open—across the brook to avoid the bridge—through the brambles and thick underwood to avoid the open path—when you think you have cheated, or, at any rate, distanced your enemy,—when you perceive in front of you the object of your hopes,—the well-known and much-desired hut which seems to invite you to repose after your long day's walk—why, at that interesting moment, even your own, your very own brother would be a veritable Bedouin in your eyes, a man to be put out of the way any how, if he attempted to stop you.

At such a crisis, if a real sportsman were to hear that his house was on fire, that his banker was off to America, taking with him his wife and his money, he would not, I say, in such a moment turn his head round to see which way they went;—Imagine, then, when in order to succeed you have made yourself out a cheat of the first water, and employed every possible subterfuge,—conceive what would be the extent of your anger and indignation, what your disgust,—when on arriving at your coveted Mare, at your oasis, at your paradise, at the spot for which you have toiled and invented such lies, to find the hut—occupied!

Sometimes you may find in the possessor a chasseur, who likes to amuse himself at your expense,—a jocose fellow, who, hearing you at a distance working your way through the underwood, and seeing you through the leaves advancing with eager and rapid steps to the spot, conceals himself behind the entrance, and as you are just on the point of entering the hut, your foot just on the step, the droll sportsman puts his ugly head out of the window, as a yellow tortoise would his out of his shell, asking you, in most polite terms, what o'clock it is; or if it should chance to be raining a deluge at the time, remark in compassionate accents, "Why, sir, you seem rather damp!"

Job was never so unfortunate as to arrive at a Mare already occupied; had he done so, it is not by any means clear to me that he would have been able to contain his wrath. For my own part, I have frequently been beside myself with vexation, and on one occasion was very nearly having a quarrel to the death with my best friend. We had accidentally met in the forest, as described, and had deceived each other, as two Greeks of Pera would, when making a bargain. After our rencontre, my friend went to the right, I to the left; he on the sly, turning and twisting by footpath and wood to conceal himself from observation; I, on the contrary, went directly to the spot, and striding away as fast as I could go, arrived at the Mare about three minutes before him, scarlet and streaming with exertion, and quite out of breath. My friend who was equally heated, but, in addition, disappointed and in a furious rage, addressed me in most insulting language, declaring between the hiccup, which his want of breath and want of coolness had produced, that I was a Jesuit, a hypocrite; and many other affectionate epithets did he apply to me with the utmost volubility.

If I had not been the fortunate occupant of the hut, which gratifying fact was as honey to my lips and oil to my bones, and had a most soothing influence on my temper, I should naturally have revolted at such conduct; but this constrained me, and I remained perfectly quiet, determined to allow my lungs to regain their composure before I replied. Seeing this, his rage increased tenfold, and he proposed a duel with our fowling-pieces, hunting-knives, or two large sticks; he offered me, also, an aquatic duel of a most novel character,—namely, for both of us to undress and endeavour to drown each other in the Mare! In short, he continued for at least a quarter of an hour to rave and rail without ceasing.

But of all this abuse I took not the slightest notice, remaining perfectly calm, sitting in my hut like Solomon on his throne, and fanning my heated countenance with the brim of my broad hat, as if I had been in a glass-house. It is true I laughed in my sleeve, looked vacantly at the blue heavens, and whistled the chorus or snatches of a hunting song. Finding therefore, it was impossible to move me, my adversary finished by getting tired of roaring and abusing; and having rubbed the perspiration from his distorted face with a force which seemed as if he would rub his nose off, he turned on his heel with the grace of a wild boar that had received a brace of balls in his haunches,—looking me fiercely in the face, and pouring forth as a last broadside, a dozen of oaths in the true argot style, which seemed to dry up the very plants near him, and silenced the frogs that were croaking in the Mare.

Such, however, is the force of habit and of this rule; and so truly does every one feel that on the strict observance of it depends the tranquillity of all, that the law of first possession is never violated; although it is but simply acknowledged by the justice and good sense of every sportsman, it is quite as well established in their manners and customs as if it were written on tables of iron. The consequence is, that however enraged a person may be, he sees, and generally at the outset, that his best course is to give way; he may fume and strut, look big and villify, but he bows his head and is off with as embarrassed a face as yours, gentle reader, would certainly be, if a friend whom you knew to be ruined came and asked you to lend him twenty thousand francs.

But also, by St. Hubert, if you remain the lord and master of this Mare, how your heart leaps, how all fatigue is forgotten! and when the twilight approaches, what a fever there is in your veins!—what anxiety! I have heard of the delirious and suffocating emotions of a lover waiting for his mistress at the rendezvous. Fiddlesticks! I say, gruel and iced-water. The most volcanic Romeo that ever penned a letter or scaled a wall, is to the sportsman waiting amidst the howling storm on a dark night for the wolves, what a cup of cream is to a bottle of vitriol. As for myself, I would give,—yes, ladies, I am wolf enough to say,—that I would willingly give up the delightful emotions of ninety rendezvous, with the loveliest women in the world, black or white, for twelve with a boar or a wolf. In return for this bad taste, I shall probably be devoured some day or other,—a fate no doubt duly merited.

I will suppose, therefore, that the sportsman is squatting quietly in his hut, like a serpent in a bush. With what ardour and nervous anxiety does he not await the propitious and long-expected hour! He throws open the ivory doors of his castle in the air,—his hopes are multiplied a thousandfold. What shall I shoot?—what shall I not shoot? Will it be a she-wolf, or a roebuck? No, I prefer a boar. Will he be a large one? But if by chance I should kill a sow?—what a capital affair that would be; the young ones never leave their mother; perhaps I should bag three or four,—perhaps the whole fare. But then, how shall I carry them off? Perhaps the wolves will save me the difficulty of contriving that, and dispute my title to them,—perhaps they will attack me, eat me, the sow, the pigs, and my sealskin cap.

How, I beseech you, is the following monologue to stand comparison with the fierce excitement of such anticipations? Will she come this evening, the darling—will my sweetest be able to come?—shall I be blessed with one kiss?—shall it be on the left cheek or the right, or shall I press her lips to mine? Bah! there can be no comparison in the hunter's mind; and then you barricade yourself in your hut as evening approaches, strengthen the weak points, study the best positions, look to your arms; the day seems as if it would never close,—nothing is left for you to do but to muse in the interval, and think of the poor maudlin lovers, who at this very hour are squatting under a wall like so many young apes; or of him who, half concealed, stands on the watch at the angle of a dirty street, waiting with a fluttering heart the arrival of some sentimental little chit of a girl, who is nevertheless coquette enough to keep him waiting for half an hour. And again, with what disdain and contempt you regard such birds as pigeons, turtle-doves, buzzards, wild duck, and teal; hares and foxes, too, which make their appearance from time to time,—to kill these never enters your head.

What, not the fox, with his splendid bushy tail?

Why what do you take me for, good reader?—what can I possibly want with that?—I, who am about to knock over two roebucks and three wolves? Peace, peace, my friends; skip and skuttle about, young rabbits; nibble away, middle-aged hares,—don't put yourselves the least out of the way, you won't have any of my powder. Besides, to fire would be very imprudent, and to a great extent compromise the sport; for at this period the sun is sinking, the shadows are slowly lengthening, the roebuck are on their way, and the she wolf in the neighbouring thicket is raising her head and listening for the sounds which indicate that her prey is not far off. And you listen also to catch the slightest noise that comes on the wind,—for each and all are a vocabulary to the huntsman,—a gust of wind, the note of a bird disturbed, a weasel running across the path, a squirrel gnawing the bark, a breaking branch, startles you, circulates your blood, and puts you anxiously alive to what may follow. Everything that surrounds you at this still tour of twilight courts your attention,—the waving branches speak to you,—the hazel thicket, bending to the weight of some advancing animal, puts you on your guard; the heart beats, not for the rustling of a silk gown, nor for the hurried footfall of woman treading with fairy lightness on the fallen leaves. The syren voice is not about to whisper softly in your ear, "Are you there, violet of my heart!" nor are you about to reply, "Angelic being, moss-rose of my soul, let me press your sweet lips?" What you are waiting for are the wild beasts of the forest,—you are listening for their distant and subdued tones, their bounding spring, their near approach, their bodies as a mark for your rifle, their yells, and cries, and death agony for your triumph.

Then the inexplicable charms of danger excite the sportsman's feelings; his physical faculties, like those of the Indian, are doubled; he grasps his rifle with a firmer clutch, and looks down the blade of his hunting-knife with anxiety and yet with satisfaction. It grows dark, but his eyes pierce the gloom—his life is at stake, but he forgets that it is so; for the love of the chase, the wild pleasures of the huntsman, have taken possession of his soul. Breathless, his heart thumping against his chest, as if it would break its bounds, he listens, the cloudy curtain rises, and with it the moon; the roebucks are heard in the distance, then the stealthy steps of the wolves, afterwards the rush of the boar: and now, gentlemen, the tragedy is about to commence—choose your victims.



CHAPTER XIV.

Mare No. 2.—Description of it—Not sought after by the sportsman—The sick banker—The doctor's prescription—The patient's disgust at it—Is at length obliged to yield—Leaves Paris for Le Morvan—Consequences to the inmates of the chateau—The banker convalescent.

If the great Mares No. 1, situated in the dark and silent depths of the forest, far from every habitation, and where you find you are left as much to yourself as the poor shipwrecked sailor supporting his exhausted frame upon a single plank on the angry billows, are so attractive, and so much coveted, though dangerous and difficult to secure, the same cannot be said of those which lie in the vicinity of a village, and which I shall call Mare No. 2.

These last are to be met with easily enough; but being so very readily discovered, it is therefore rare to find near them the larger descriptions of game,—though the sportsman may see a few thrushes, some dozen of water-wagtails, and flocks of little impudent chaffinches, greenfinches, &c., which come there to imbibe, hopping from stone to stone, and singing in the willows; beyond these he will see nothing worth the cap on the nipple of his gun. Nevertheless to him who is without experience,—to the hunter who cannot read the language of the forest on the bark of the trees, on the freshly trodden ground, or the bent grass and broken flowers,—these pieces of water seem quite as beautiful and well situated, indeed quite as desirable, as the others.

Perhaps such an ignoramus might prefer them; for they are always more open, more free from weeds, rushes and flags, and less dark; and at the hour of la chasse au poste, the hour of twilight, they are as solitary as the Mare No. 1. But the savage beasts of the forest are not to be deceived; their instinct tells them that at a quarter, or perhaps half a mile from them, there is, though unseen and hidden in the thickness of the trees, a farm, or two or three houses; and when they are not pressed onward by the winter snows, or by maddening hunger, they stop,—for the smell of man is not pleasant to their nostrils, the neighbourhood is not agreeable to them, and they immediately withdraw from the spot.

It is thus that these Mares are always at any person's disposal; the passing sportsman rarely makes more than a circuit round them; and if one is occasionally found on their banks, he may at once be set down as a beginner, who, having found the Mares No. 1 in the vicinity all occupied, has here installed himself for the evening in sheer vexation and despair. Over these pools of troubled water, frequented during the whole day by the inhabitants of the adjoining cottages, that eternal stillness and imposing solitude, which are the delight of the wolf and the boar, never reigns.

The day has scarcely dawned ere the wood-cutters' wives, in their red petticoats, with brown jugs on their heads, come to fill them there, or to wash their vegetables; the cows to drink, the children to play at ducks and drakes, or the men to water the horses. But a little before nightfall all this going and coming, this trampling of heavy sabots, the bellowings, oaths, and cracking of whips subside, and cease, as if by magic, when the sun is down. The poultry and the peasants are equally silent, their huts are closed, their beds are gained, and their dogs, stretched motionless behind the door, snore and sleep soundly with open ear, and every leaf without is still.

The chasseur a l'affut, if inexperienced or not acquainted with the country, while reconnoitring the spot during the last few minutes of the twilight that remain, would never imagine that he was near an inhabited spot; not a bark, not a sound, not one twinkling light in a cottage window, not one wreath of ascending smoke is to be heard or seen. Thinking therefore that he has made a grand discovery, he rubs his hands with no little satisfaction, squats down at the foot of some tree, or in the temporary shed on the bank, and believes he is going to kill a dozen wolves at least.

But, alas! it is in vain for him to open his eyes and his ears; nothing is to be seen but one or two hideous bats, which flap their wings in his face, and frighten him in the midst of a reverie. Nothing is on the move; no newt or tadpole is playing in the water, and nothing can be descried there but the rays of the moon, as she moves slowly o'er its surface; nor is anything to be heard except the wind whistling through the trees, or an occasional shot from the rifle of a brother sportsman, who, more happy, more clever, and better placed than himself, may be heard in the distance. I should not have thought of mentioning the Mares No. 2, so little do they deserve attention, if one of them had not been the scene of a very strange adventure of which I was witness; and as the description of it will give me an opportunity of speaking of the Mares No. 3, and of the third mode of taking woodcocks, I shall profit by the circumstance to relate it.

One day a millionnaire, a Lucullus, a rich banker of Paris, found himself dreadfully ill: his body grew larger every twenty-four hours; his neck sunk into his shoulders, his breathing became difficult, and three or four times in the course of a week he was within a little of being suffocated; as many times in the course of a month the gout, which in the morning had been tearing his toes and his heels as if with hot pincers, in the evening twisted his calves and his knees as if they were being made into ropes. What was to be done under these circumstances? The best physicians consulted together, and recommended him to order a pair of hob-nailed shoes from a country shoemaker, and instantly leave the capital.

"Hob-nailed shoes, with donkey heels!" cried the banker, all amazed; "and for what, in the name of goodness?"

"Why, to run with in search of health over the wild moors and heaths, and improve your figure by long walks in the mountains," was the reply.

And as the only hope of health was obedience, he prepared his mind to set off. It is true the doctors permitted him to carry with him his cane, his flute, and his eye-glass; but he was obliged to leave behind his carriages, his horses, his luxurious arm-chairs and his cooks; in short, he was informed that, under the penalty of being quickly placed under ground, and obliged to shake hands with his respectable ancestors, and enjoy with them the nice white marble monuments under which they reposed, he must, for the next year at least, make use of his own legs, forget there were such things as Rentes, eat only when he felt hungry, and drink when he was thirsty.

What a sentence for a rich Parisian banker! to leave his splendid hotel and his apartments, redolent with delicious perfumes, and play the pedestrian up and down the footpaths in the woods, the mossy glades and highway of the forest, or sit on a large stone at the top of a hill under the mid-day sun, and inhale from the valleys the soft breezes, laden with the odours of the new-mown hay, or the clover-fields in full blossom. His box at the grand opera, lined with velvet, must too be left behind, and many an adieu be given to the gauze-clad sylphides and painted nightingales of that gay establishment.

Yes, all these were to be exchanged for morning walks to the summit of some mountain; to make his bow to Aurora, and listen to the joyous carol of the larks chanting high in the air their hymns of praise, or listening to their blithe little brothers of song, awakening in the bushes, and fluttering, amidst a shower of pearls and rubies—those dewy gems which hang in the sunny rays upon every branch. "Ah, it is all over with me!" wheezed the plethoric banker, when the junior doctor of the consultation of three informed him of their unanimous opinion.

"It is all over with me, gentlemen; in the name of mercy what will become of me, if I am put on the peasant's daily fare of buck-wheat and roasted beans? Consider again, gentlemen."

"It is a matter of necessity, sir," replied the trio; "your life is at stake."

"Dear doctors, withdraw these unwholesome words; open the consultation afresh; pass once more in review all your scientific acquirements, your great knowledge of chemistry, your hospital experience. Press, dear gentlemen, between both your hands the pharmacopean sponge, and in the name of mercy squeeze out for me some more agreeable remedy."

"There is no other," replied the funereal-looking physicians.

"What, is the house then really in danger?"

"Danger! sir, why it is nearly on fire. Your heart is getting diseased, your lungs are touched, your blood is actually scented and coloured with the truffles you have eaten. Why, your very nose (pray excuse the freedom of our remark), your roseate nose bears testimony to what we say."

"Alas, alas! this is I fear the truth; but, gentlemen, if I leave Paris, what on earth will become of the Great Northern and the Orleans Railways, and the funds,—my dividends, rents, and bad debts?"

"And your feverish pulse, sir, your wrinkled liver, and your digestion, which scarcely ever allows you to close your eyes?"

"Yes! yes,—but my Spanish fives and Mexican bonds?"

"And your bilious eyes and eyelids full of crows' feet, and the gout and the rheumatism which excruciate you?—those horrid spiders which are weaving their threads in the muscles of your calves?"

"But my carrier-pigeons, gentlemen, source of my tenderest care; the brokerage, the speculation for the account, and my good friend, the Minister of the Interior, and of the Travaux Publics; and the snowball of my fortune, which must stop unproductive till I recover;—how can I leave all these to fate?"

"Think of your respiration, which is disorganized, and the vital principle, the torch of life, which flickers up and down in the socket, and ere many weeks will be extinguished, unless you at once take our advice."

"What!" continued the votary of wealth,—"what! cannot gold purchase health, most sapient doctors?"

"No, sir; doctors are paid, that's all, and people cure themselves."

"You persist, then, in saying that I am not even to take my head cook with me?"

"On no account whatever."

"Then I am defunct already."

"That you will be so, sir, in two months, if you remain here, there cannot be a doubt."

"Then, good heavens! where can I go? What am I to do without carriages, without opera nightingales, and, above all things, without a head cook?"

The night succeeding the consultation, the banker felt as if twenty cork-screws had been driven into his calves, and he made, ere dawn, a vow that he would leave the capital. This determination taken, the next point to be decided was in what direction to go,—for it was not a journey of pleasure he was about to take, but one of health; and for once his riches were of no further use to him than to provide the means of transit. His physicians, fashionable men, strange to say, were sincere, and did not order him to Nice or Lucca, hot-baths, or mineral waters, or even to the orange-groves of Hyeres, to which, when a rich man cannot recover, they send him, in order that he may die comfortably under Nature's warm blanket, the sun, inhaling with his last inspirations the delicious scent of her flowers. To Spain, where, said the invalid, they talk so loud and drink water, he would not go; nor to Germany, the land of meerschaums and sour crout. Which direction therefore was he to take? to which point of the compass was he to turn the vessel's prow?

Several times did the unhappy banker pass his geography in review, but his knowledge of this science was indeed finite, and the Landes, Picardy, and such like spots, alone presented themselves to his imagination. In this predicament the light of friendship suddenly threw a ray over his thinking faculties; he remembered my father, the companion of his boyhood, with whom he had been brought up,—his great friend, without doubt, but of whom he had not thought for the last ten years.

"By all the blue devils that dance in my brain!" said the unhappy millionnaire, starting up on his bed of pain, as if he had a spring in his back, and throwing at the nose of his astonished apothecary, who was watching him, the draught presented to him,—"by the wig of my respected grandfather,—by the beard of AEsculapius, I have found the real friend who will pour over my head the oil of health."

"My good sir," said his attendant, "pray calm yourself, and take this pill" ...

"Yes, that dear friend, he will set me all to rights—he will bring to my heavy eyelids those peaceful slumbers which now, alas! I never enjoy."

"But, Sir," repeated the apothecary, "pray be so good as to lay down and swallow this."

"Back, felon of hell! horse-leech, son of a poultice! go, doctor of the devil, and join your friend in black below."

"But Monsieur le Banquier"——

"Off I say, off!—sinister raven, cease your croaking! Silence—take the abominable drugs yourself—poison yourself, you wretch. Give me my trousers, and let me dress myself. Hey, Bilboquet!—bring my hot water, razors, and shaving soap. Hurrah! Phoebus, light the sun and put out the stars; arise day! Into the saddle, postillions,—here, bring some cigars. Hurrah! the wind is up; now, my stout boatmen, down to your oars." "Halloo! halloo!" shouted his attendant, "help! help!" and he got at both bells and rang away with might and main; but before any one came the banker was out of bed, struck his attendant a blow in the eye, which made him see one hundred and forty-six suns, and laid him upon the floor, after which he commenced waltzing en chemise in his delirium, all round the room with a chair, dragging after him the unfortunate hero of the pestle and mortar, and roaring at the top of his voice these lines of Racine:

Peut-etre on t'a conte la fameuse disgrace De l'altiere Vasthi dont j'occupe la place, Lorsque le Roi, centre elle enflamme de depit,—

followed by—

Quel profane en ces lieux ose porter ses pas? Hola, gardes!—

At this moment a reinforcement most luckily arrived; but as in this access of fever he defended himself against all comers like a bear, and boxed away like an Englishman, they had no little difficulty in securing him; at length, in spite of his violence, he was replaced in his bed, like a sword into its sheath. There, however, he would not lay quiet; first he tore the satin curtains, then he hugged his richly-worked pillow to his breast, calling it his best and dearest friend, and performed fifty other such antics. He obtained, in short, no repose, until his secretary, who entered at his bidding half-dressed and with one eye half shut, had written the following note to my father, under his dictation,—a letter evidently written in a paroxysm of high fever:

"Friend of my heart, jessamine of my soul, bright party-coloured tulip of my souvenirs, may the Creator pour upon your gray and venerable head a stream from his flower-pot of blessings!

"Dear Friend,—Several atrocious doctors, with pale noses, the very sight of which gives one the cholic, and with black searching eyes, that make one tremble, say that I am very ill,—that I shall die. They say too that there is only one mode of cure, and that is to take my valuable body into your beautiful province. It is the east wind they say, and blue-bottles, corn-flowers, field-poppies, and the green turf; the song of the nightingale and the beautiful moonlight nights; the hum of bees and the bleating of sheep, which will effect this marvellous cure. It is amongst the rocks and streams of your mountains, in long walks in your forests, and in your valleys; in the innocent candour of your pretty peasant girls, the pure water of your fountains, and the cream cheeses of your dairies that I am told resides the power to retain here below my soul, just ready to fly away. Alas! yes, I am forced to admit the fact; I must say I am very ill, and it is my own fault;—yes, my own undoubted fault. I have drank too deeply of voluptuous ease; I have tasted too often the luscious grapes of forbidden pleasures. I am no longer virtuous enough to wish to see the sun rise, and hence it is that I am suffering intensely in the capacity of a human pincushion, in which, one after the other, the sharpest and most pointed pins have stuck themselves, namely, every infirmity and every disease that mortal man is heir to.

"In this delicate and distressing position, dear friend, I thought of you: yes, to you, to you only, shall I owe my restoration to health. Do not therefore be surprised if, in the course of a few days, you should see my shadow approach your hospitable door; and prepare for it, I beg you, a small room and a bed of dried leaves, coarse bread, and a jug of water. It seems that in order to regenerate my blood I shall want all these; and I shall be fortunate if, in seeking a perfect restoration to health, I am not obliged to be a swine-herd or keep sheep, to dig, cut, and saw wood, pick spinach, or weed the flower-beds! Quick, my friend; light with all convenient haste the altar on which we will burn again the incense and benjamin of friendship. Blow again the sparks now so nearly extinguished of our happy boyish days; revive again the holy flames of our youthful affections; and, above all things, have the scissors ready which are to cut the Gordian knot of my complicated diseases. Soon, in shaking you by the hand, my shadow shall say much more."

Yours, &c.,

Fifteen days after the receipt of this extraordinary composition, the banker, escorted by a lean and cadaverous-looking doctor, arrived at our chateau, half strangled with a churchyard cough, and in a state of apparently hopeless debility. He was evidently very, very ill; and if it had not been for the sincere friendship my father had for him, I really do not know how we could have supported the dark cloud which his presence seemed to throw upon our house for nearly nine mortal weeks.

No one dared either to move or speak: if you wished to laugh, it could only be on the terrace; if to blow your nose, it was to be done in the cellar; and as to sneezing, one was obliged to go to the bottom of the garden. The horses' feet were wrapped up in hay-bands, so that no sound should be heard in the court-yard; the servants went about the house in list shoes, and all the approaches to it were knee-deep in straw. There was an end to the fanfares of the huntsman's horn, and the rollicking chorus; guns, shot and powder, were all placed under lock and key; the kennel was mute, and the muzzled dogs looked piteously at one another, and hung their heads, as if they had given themselves up to the certain prospect of being drowned. The very hares knew how matters were, and passed to and fro before the garden-windows; and a stray wolf, which came one evening into the court-yard, sat on his hind-quarters and looked us impudently in the face; as to the birds, they ate up very nearly every peach and apricot we had. The silence of the grave reigned everywhere—the house seemed a very sepulchre, in which nothing could be heard but the monotonous liquid bubblings of the fountains, the ticking of the clocks, and the sighing breezes that whistled through the casements.

Fairly worn out with this state of things, I was thinking seriously of leaving for the gay swamps of Holland, when a crisis occurred in the banker's disorder, and after a severe struggle, in which every bone of his body seemed to twist itself round, he was declared by his pallid doctor out of danger—saved. Surrounding his bed, we drank with no little joy to his perfect recovery, and during one entire week we suspended on the walls of his bed-room, according to the custom in Le Morvan, garlands of lilies and vervenia, interwoven with green foliage and wild thyme. From this time he improved daily, and three months after no one would have recognized the sick man; his face became quite rosy, and his eyes looked full of returning health. With a gun on his shoulder, he followed us nimbly through the vineyards, never flinched from his bottle, sang barcarolles with the ladies, made declarations of love to all the young girls, promised to marry each, once at least, and danced away in the evening under the acacias with the nymphs of the village, to whom he had always some secret to tell behind the trees, or in some snug little corner. The woodcock season having arrived during his stay, which was now nearly over, we determined that he should be introduced to la chasse aux Mares.

Pardon me, kind reader, for all this gossip by the way, but this is the point at which I wished to arrive.



CHAPTER XV.

Summer months in the Forest—Mare No. 3—Description of it—The Woodcock fly—The Banker has a day's sport—Arrives at the Mare—Difficult to please in his choice of a hut—Proceeds to a larger Mare—His friends retire—The Banker on the alert for a Wolf or a Boar—Fires at some animal—The unfortunate discovery—Rage of the Parisian—Pays for his blunder, and recovers his temper.

During the months of June, July, and August, the great heats in our forests are suffocating, and the woodcock, which during the livelong day has been squatting under some mossy root, is impressed with the idea that a bathe in a clear pool of cold fresh water would be very conducive to its health. Thus directly the sun, red as a shot which leaves the furnace, falls below the horizon, and that the clouds surrounding the spot where it disappears, at first lurid and bright like fire, then yellow like a sea of gold, become cool, pale, and at length sink into more sober hues, the woodcock,—which waits only for this moment to open its wings and promenade the neighbourhood,—comes forth and commences a study of the winds. Guided by instinct, and by the fresh currents of air that float unseen in the atmosphere, she follows the sweet upland breezes, and soon arrives at the spring or piece of water of which she is in search.

The Mares No. 3, in which the woodcock more especially loves to take a bath, are almost as difficult to find as the one that I discovered, for they are hidden in the depths of the forest; like it, also, they are for the most part small, encircled by the thick foliage of the surrounding trees, and consequently very dark; and the more this is the case, the more solitary they are, and therefore the more sought after by this bird. A woodcock never bathes in the Mare No. 1; for to them resort one after another all the large game, or those No. 2, as these are too open. The woodcocks are discreet and bashful, and, like the wives of the Sultan, love a retired bath-room, where they may disport themselves on banks ever fresh and green, perfumed with wild flowers, and immerse their fair persons in pellucid waters that have never been tainted with a drop of blood, or covered with feathers torn from the victim of the sportsman's gun. Thus it is therefore that the Mares frequented by the woodcock are so entirely hidden by the thick and falling branches, so enveloped in deep shade, that you must have eyes made on purpose to be able to discover their large brown bodies plunging in the crystal water and wading amongst the flags. In aid of the sportsman, now as in the spring, a little fly comes buzzing and wheeling about in the air to warn the sportsman of the arrival of the birds, which, directly the moon's white horn is seen glancing between the trees, arrive flapping their wings in small parties of two and three at a time. One afternoon, when the wind blew soft, and the sun was refulgent in the azure above, we proposed an excursion in the forest to our friend the banker, who was now quite convalescent.

"What! do you wish to give me up to the beasts?" cried he, jumping up from his seat.

"Not at all, dear sir, pray don't be alarmed; we are merely desirous of making you acquainted with the most innocent, the least dangerous sport of the chasse a l'affut," and having convinced him, we started. Everything went well as far as the entrance to the forest; but there the millionnaire, little accustomed to walk over the stumps of underwood and amongst the thorns, he began to drop into the rear, stopping every now and then to rest against some tree, or disentangle his legs from some yards of bramble, puffing and blowing, and ejaculating Oh's! and Ha's! by dozens.

"Courage! sir," we said, "courage! we shall arrive too late; one brisk half-hour's walk, and we are at our posts."

"Upon my word, gentlemen, you are really considerate; I walk, I suspect, quite as fast as you. But"—and how was he delighted to find an excuse for a halt—"you spoke of a chasse a l'affut, hiding for what I should like to know—for bears, panthers, or crocodiles? is it this kind of game we are to watch for?"

"Oh! no—for woodcocks."

"Woodcocks!—what, have you made me walk since the morning through perfect beds of briars and over miles of large stones, escalade the mountains, descend precipices, and brought me through water-courses and dark ravines, to kill a few woodcocks?"

"Would you prefer confronting a wild boar?"

"Certainly," said the puffing convalescent; "if there was no chance of danger, I should infinitely prefer killing a boar."

"For to-day this is impossible."

"Why so?"

"Why, in the first place, there are no boars in this wood, and it is too late to take you to those which they frequent."

"Then we shall find only woodcocks in the place we are going to?"

"Nothing else; at least during the half-hour we shall remain."

"And if we were to remain more than half an hour?"

"Oh! then we might perhaps by accident see a roebuck—perhaps a hungry wolf."

"A hungry wolf!—the deuce! And if there should come by chance a wolf to the Mare when I shall be all alone, what must I do?"

"Why kill it, to be sure."

"To be sure, why of course I should kill the ferocious animal,"—and the banker, though smacking his fingers and whistling as if quite unconcerned, looked very grave. Continuing our walk, we arrived at the Mares.

"Goodness," said my companion, "how dark it is here,"—looking into each hut that was shown him. "Misericorde! if I were to ensconce myself in this leafy cabin, this gloomy sombre hole, I should fancy myself seated at the bottom of a blacking-bottle—I respectfully decline the honour of occupying the hut."

"Very well, let us proceed to another," we exclaimed. But the second was pronounced more lugubrious and melancholy-looking than the first, and the third not more agreeable than the preceding one.

"It is no longer a matter of doubt," said the Parisian; "you are a family of owls. What! place myself in these holes, these mouse-traps, in these tumuli of leaves, where the archfiend himself, habituated to every kind of darkness, could not distinguish anything?—thank you, gentlemen. As to you, you can see clear; but by the great telescope of the observatory, if I were to get into one of these rustic ovens, I should not in five minutes be able to distinguish the end of my nose—I should not be able to find my way to my breeches-pocket."

"But, my dear sir," said I to him, when alone, for my two friends were now snugly seated in the rejected huts, "you are very difficult to please, and it becomes embarrassing, for these cabins are all alike; when you have seen one you have seen a dozen. Now this, believe me, is a capital one; come, seat yourself here."

"I am much obliged to you, not that one; for this pool of water in particular has something very sinister about it; the spot feels raw, and has an unpleasant wolfish air."

What was to be done? While debating thus, I remembered that at some little distance from the place where we then were, stood two large farms, Les Fermes des Amandiers, and that, at a distance of half a mile beyond them, there was a magnificent Mare, in the style, it is true, of Mare No. 2, large and open, and yet it would be as useless to wait for woodcocks there as it would be to hope to catch a trout in the basins of Trafalgar-square. Such a spot seemed to me admirably calculated for the banker; I resolved, therefore, to conduct him to it.

"If this hut does not please you," said I, "follow me, and quickly."

"Where are you going to take me?"

"Oh! do not alarm yourself, I have just thought of a place that will suit you exactly: a charming spot, delightfully scented by a thicket of honeysuckles; but you must be on the alert. See, the sun is nearly below the summit of the tallest oaks—we shall not have more than one hour of daylight; and I must return here."

When we arrived at the Mare of which I was in search, the immediate neighbourhood of it was already silent and deserted. "Heavens!" said the enchanted banker, "what a delightful spot! Quick!—where shall I place myself? Let us look for the hut—ha! here it is, but half in ruins;" for it had not, in all probability, been occupied three times in the last three years; we were obliged therefore to cut some branches, and roughly repair it; and the banker, having crept into the interior, like a sweep up a chimney, requested to have his last instructions.

"Well, when night has nearly closed in," said I, laughing under my moustache, "be on the qui vive. The woodcocks will be here, but move not; be like a statue for a few minutes; let them approach—let them come, fly and whirl, and look about them; then, when reassured by your silence, they will fall into the shallow water, paddle in the grass, and plunging throw their legs into the air. At that moment they are yours. Take your time and a deliberate aim, and miss them not. The sport over, remain where you are, and on our return we will join you."

"All you say is very clear and very pretty," replied the banker; "but I feel already a horrid cramp in my left leg; and if I am to remain crumpled up in this hut, like a Turk taking his coffee, or like a monkey gnawing an apple, when you come for me I shall have lost the use of my limbs."

"Oh! if that is likely to be your fate, walk about—stretch your legs; you have yet twenty minutes before dark. Adieu, sir, adieu; and good luck attend you; for myself, I must be off to my post." But I had gone scarcely thirty yards when he shouted after me, "Oh! Henri—my dear young friend—come back. Here! see, a pack of wolves! What do I say? no; a whole family of bears has passed this way! Look! the border of the Mare is ploughed up by the feet of these savage brutes."

"Bears, sir! those marks are merely the trampling of the shepherds' dogs."

"Shepherds' dogs! Stoop down—look closer; do you mean to tell me that the shepherds' dogs have made these prints of cloven feet in the mud?"

"No! those are holes made by the young calves from some neighbouring farm, that came to drink here," I replied, repressing a laugh.

"Nonsense! Henri; calves, indeed! they are the marks of buffaloes and wild boars. You cannot deceive me; for I know something about such things. Why, this Mare is, I have no doubt, the rendezvous of all the beasts of the forest for ten miles round. Thank you, I don't intend to remain here."

"Not remain! why you will, if you are correct, have far better fun than we shall. Come, get into the hut."

"Remain with me, and divide the honour of the sport."

"Me? no: I thank you,—adieu! and keep your eyes about you."

"Halloo! Henri, come back. By the spectacles of my grandmother, what will become of me? I am a fool! I have lost my sight—I have forgot my eye-glass."

"Try to do without it."

"Impossible! it is useless—without an eye-glass I cannot see a yard before me; I shall most certainly leave this Mare. I shall be off with you."

"My dear sir," said I to him, "you must know and feel that if I thought there was the most remote chance of danger, I would not leave you alone; you really have nothing to fear—if you come with me, you will be dreadfully in the way, and without doing the least possible good. The huts are so very small, that there is only sufficient room for one: we shall kill nothing, and be laughed at into the bargain."

"But these terrible quadrupeds; what if they should come and devour me when you are gone?"

"I tell you you have nothing to fear."

"Very well, then I will believe you; after all, I am not a coward, but a man: a royal tiger would not frighten me, and in spite of these sombre looking trees waving to and fro, this silence, and the solitary look of the place, I remain; yes, by Jupiter, I remain; only barricade me in the rear, cut some thick branches, palisade me well round—there, now I think you may leave me, I require nothing more—and yet one word; if I were in danger, do you think you would hear me if I called?"

"Certainly, a whisper may almost be heard in the forest at night—the trees conduct the slightest sound."

"Well, then, give me a shake of your hand. Adieu."

"Adieu, sir; be patient, and, above all, wait for our return."

"Let me alone for that; never fear my leaving this hut alone."

"And cover your head well, for nothing is so likely to give one cold as the night air rushing into the ears."

"And mind, now, don't pray forget me. If you are not here in three-quarters of an hour, I shall fire signals of distress, and make the forest ring again with my maledictions."

But without waiting to hear anything further, I was off, and soon reached my post. The sport, as usual, was pretty good; my friends and myself killed four couple of woodcocks, and the affut over, we turned our steps towards the banker's cabin. No report of a gun had yet been heard in his direction, but suddenly, and when we were scarcely five hundred paces from the hut, and I was on the point of announcing our arrival by a shrill whistle—two barrels were discharged one after the other—then followed a long and heavy groan, and after that a cry of distress. In a few seconds we bounded to the spot, and found our friend stretched on the grass outside his hut, without his hat, his eyes staring wildly about him, and his hair in disorder. He was trembling with emotion, and pointed to a black animal, half hid in the water and the rushes, which seemed very large, and was rolling from side to side in the agonies of approaching death. Fright, downright fright, had tied the banker's tongue; and while he is collecting his senses, allow me to tell you, good reader, what had occurred in our absence.

Dumb and motionless, as directed, he had, during half an hour, waited anxiously for the woodcocks; but the woodcocks had for a very long time forgotten the road to this Mare; not one came—there was no sport for him. He had already fancied he heard us returning in the distance, and that his cramped legs would be set at liberty, and his twisted body again assume the perpendicular, when all at once a cold perspiration stood upon his brow, terror seized him; for behind, nay, almost close to him, he heard advancing the heavy tramp and loud breathing of a wild beast, and before he had time to observe what kind of an animal it was, the brute passed so close to the hut that he pressed it down, and rushed on to the Mare. More dead than alive, the banker lay half-squeezed in a corner of his cabin, and panting for breath, dared scarcely move. After a few minutes, however, he hazarded a careful glance outside, and not twenty paces from him saw the immense quadruped bathing, and rolling himself quietly in the water.

"It is a gigantic boar," said he to himself, "as large as a horse, and as old as Methuselah—no doubt the patriarch of the forest—what tusks he must have! Let us observe." And with a courage which did him credit, he, after some time, suppressed his fear, and felt in the pocket of his game-bag for two balls, which, with trembling hands, he slipped into his gun. After this he again looked out, and reconnoitred the movements of the enemy; but so great was the obscurity, that he could discover nothing—unless, indeed, it was a dark mass which walked and jumped hither and thither, rolled, frolicked, and rejoiced in his refreshing bath. The heart of the Parisian was greatly agitated, and beat as if it would split his flannel waistcoat; nevertheless, he took good and deliberate aim at the black object in front, and though exceedingly terrified, he cocked his gun, and in a perfect fever of excitement let fly both barrels, falling immediately backwards in a corner of his hut, perfectly bewildered with his own courage. A deep groan followed, and at the end of a few minutes of agony and suspense, our friend, seeing no tiger in the act of springing upon him, hazarded another look, when he still heard the creature moaning, and groaning, and floundering in the water.

The fact was, he had by a miracle, and without seeing, done that which he never could have done at mid-day,—his two balls had perforated the animal's head and neck. Observing the monster raising itself with difficulty, and endeavouring to withdraw its legs from the sticky mud in which they were fixed, the courage of despair rushed into his heart—he left the hut, upsetting everything in his way, and precipitated himself upon his adversary with a view of despatching him with the butt end of his gun, or making him retreat further into the Mare, when imagine his consternation and fear,—at the very moment his uplifted arm was stretched out, like Jupiter's in the act of hurling a thunderbolt, the animal raised himself on his haunches, looked him full in the face, opened two enormous jaws, put up two very long ears, and instead of a roar full of rage and ferocity, sent forth the most agonizing and dolorous bray that was ever heard from the throat of any ass, French, English, or Spanish! Yes! it was an ass the banker had mortally wounded; an unfortunate ass, which, driven by thirst and the heat of the weather, had left his shed at the neighbouring farm-house, to quench it and refresh himself with a bath.

Surprise, shame, horror, and confusion began to dance a polka in the banker's brain, and made him utter the hoarse cry which we had heard. While we were yet gazing at each other the poor creature, by a last effort, raised his bleeding head once more above the water, and collecting all the strength he had left, scrambled from the Mare, gave a half-suffocating and plaintive bray, and casting a look full of reproach upon the gasping banker, which seemed to say, "I die, but I forgive you," fell dead at our feet.

A convulsion of laughter from the party, now all assembled, followed; even the birds, awakened from their slumbers, began to sing and partake of the general hilarity.

"Halloo! Mr. Three per Cent.," said one, "this is what you call sporting, is it—killing starved woodcocks? Fie! sir."

"You are three infamous vagabonds," replied the Parisian, catching his breath, and picking up his hat.

"What! sir."

"Why, you are a trinity of rascals, I repeat."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Abominable hypocrites, I say; this is a piece of acting, a trick which you have kindly put upon me—this ass was driven here by you, or by some one at your suggestion; I see clearly how it is."

"See clearly, do you? it is a pity, then, you did not a few minutes ago."

"It is an infernal plot, I say; think you that I came into this wretched country of forests to kill donkeys?"

"Well! but whose fault is it, sir; why did you not bring your eye-glass?"

"My eye-glass; I don't require one, gentlemen, to enable me to see that you have made a fool of me."

"My dear sir, reflect for a moment."

"No, gentlemen, I feel indignant at the paltry joke you have played upon me—you knew that my sight was weak, and on that infirmity you have practised a very shameful trick; you have said to yourselves, 'Send an ass to this Parisian, he will no doubt take it for a wild boar.' Be off, gentlemen, depart; let me have a clear horizon, or I shall proceed to extremity."

"Monsieur le Banquier, if you do not become a little more reasonable, we shall leave you to your reflections and to yourself, and pretty pickings you will be for the wolves."

"So much the better; I wish to remain, I desire it; and after the gross insult you have offered me, I shall certainly not be beholden to you as a guide, or return to the town in your company." And he kicked the dead carcass before him in his rage.

"But, Monsieur le Banquier, the night is getting chilly and damp, and remember you are only just convalescent; come, let us be off."

"Gentlemen, I have already told you I shall not accompany you."

"Why, this is madness, sir."

"Anything you please; but thus it shall be. I will not leave this wood until I have killed a wolf; yes, I must have a wolf; it is only in the blood of a wolf that I can wash out the insult I have received; and I will remain in the forest eight days, fifteen, three months, if necessary. I will live on acorns, ants, toad's eggs, and roots, but by the soul of that stupid brute that lays there," and he gave the deceased ass a second kick, "I will not budge until I have killed a wolf: enable me to slaughter a wolf, and I will follow you; nay, what is more, forgive you."

"Monsieur le Banquier, let us in the first place tie a stone round the neck of this unfortunate animal, and throw his body into the Mare, and then, as we are the only witnesses of this adventure, we swear that we will never divulge it to any one, or make the slightest allusion to it; and, as we are men of honour, you will of course believe us;—the secret shall be kept inviolable. On the other hand, as we are to a certain extent responsible for your health, and as your remaining here any longer in this cold wind will seriously endanger it, do not feel discomposed if we defer to another day the pleasure of seeing you kill a wolf, and request you will accompany us back to the chateau."

With various flattering speeches and consoling words, to heal his mortification, we at length succeeded in bringing him away with us; many a laugh had we on our road home, and many were the promises given that we would never reveal the events of the evening. But, alas! the secret came out on the following day, for before twelve o'clock had struck, a peasant came knocking at the door, howling, crying, bawling like a blind beggar, and demanding who had killed his ass. His importunity succeeded; the murderer was brought to light, the banker cheerfully paid for his shot, and laughed heartily at the adventure; but in spite of his apparent philosophy, I remarked that from that moment he never met an ass that he did not turn away his head; and this is the kind of game that one finds in Mare No. 2.



CHAPTER XVI.

The Cure of the Mountain—Toby Gold Button—Hospitality—The Cure's pig—His hard fate and reflections—The Cure of the plain—His worth and influence—The agent of the Government—Landed Proprietors—Their influence—The Orator—Dialogue with a Peasant.

If the Burgundian curates dwelling in the richest parts of the province are fat, sleek, and jovial members of the Establishment,—if in their cellars are to be found the best and most generous wines, and on their tables the most exquisite dishes,—the cures of that portion of Le Morvan which is immediately adjacent to Burgundy enjoy the same abundance, and appreciate the advantages of good living equally with them. But this is not the case with their confreres who reside in the uplands, amongst the arid and volcanic mountains, without roads, and the thickly timbered hill-district which joins the Nivernais. There the village pastors are poor, thin, and badly fed; fairly buried in the forest, and surrounded by a population more wretched and squalid than the rats of their own churches;—they seem as it were abandoned by everybody. That which I am about to relate will prove this, and show what a deplorable existence theirs is, and the ingenious methods to which they are obliged to have recourse to keep up a fair outside.

One of them thus exiled to a most deserted part of our forests, and who, the whole year, except on a few rare occasions, lived only on fruit and vegetables, hit upon a most admirable expedient for providing an animal repast to set before the cures of the neighbourhood, when one or the other, two or three times during the year, ventured into these dreadful solitudes, with a view of assuring himself with his own eyes that his unfortunate colleague had not yet died of hunger. The cure in question possessed a pig, his whole fortune: and you will see, gentle reader, the manner in which he used it.

Immediately the bell of his presbytery announced a visitor, (the bell was red with rust, and its iron tongue never spoke unless to announce a formal visit,) and that his cook had shown his clerical friend into the parlour, the master of the house, drawing himself up majestically, said to his housekeeper (cures fortunately always have, cousins, nieces, or house-keepers), as Louis XIV. might have said to Vatal, "Brigitte, let there be a good dinner for myself and my friend." Brigitte, although she knew there were only stale crusts and dried peas in her larder, seemed in no degree embarrassed by this order; she summoned to her assistance "Toby, the Carrot," so called because his hair was as red as that of a native of West Galloway, and leaving the house together, they both went in search of the pig.

Toby the Carrot, a youth of seventeen, was the presbyter's page, a poor half-starved devil that the cure had taken into his service, who lodged him badly, boarded him worse, and gave him no clothes at all; but who, nevertheless, in his moments of good-humour—they were rare—and no doubt to recompense him for so many drawbacks, would call him "Toby Gold-button." At this innocent little pleasantry, this touch of affability, Toby grinned from ear to ear, made a deep reverence, and put the compliment carefully into his pocket, regretting however, no doubt, that he had nothing more substantial and savoury than this to eat with his coarse dry bread. Toby was a very useful servitor to the cure; he was always on the alert; fat did not check his rapid movements, and from the time the Angelus rang in the morning to Vespers in the evening, his long skinny legs were constantly going. He drew the water, peeled and washed the onions, blacked the shoes—and how cure's shoes do shine!—rang the chapel-bell, gathered the acorns for the pig, intoned the Amen when his master said mass, swept and weeded the garden, snared the thrushes—which he cooked and eat in secret—and, dressed in a white surplice, carried the cross and the Viaticum, and accompanied the cure at night when on his way to offer the last consolations of religion to some dying poacher in the forest. These expeditions were sometimes across the mountains, and along the dry bed of some torrent, in which, according to Toby's notion, they would have certainly perished had not the Bon Dieu been with them.

But we must return to our parson's pig, which after a short skirmish was caught by Brigitte and her carrotty assistant; and notwithstanding his cries, his grunts, his gestures of despair and supplication, the inhuman cook, seizing his head, opened a large vein in his throat, and relieved him of two pounds of blood; this, with the addition of garlic, shallots, mint, wild thyme and parsley, was converted into a most savoury and delicious black-pudding for the cure, and his friend, and being served to their reverences smoking hot on the summit of a pyramid of yellow cabbage, figured admirably as a small Vesuvius and a centre dish. The surgical operation over, Brigitte, whose qualifications as a sempstress were superior, darned up the hole in the neck of the unfortunate animal, and he was then turned loose until a fresh supply of black-puddings should be required for a similar occasion. This wretched pig was never happy: how could he be so? Like Damocles of Syracuse, he lived in a state of perpetual fever; terror seized him directly he heard the cure's bell, and seeing in imagination the uplifted knife already about to glide into his bacon, he invariably took to his heels before Brigitte was half way to the door to answer it.

If, as usual, the peal announced a diner-out, Brigitte and Gold-button were soon on his track, calling him by the most tender epithets, and promising that he should have something nice for his supper, skim-milk, &c.; but the pig, with his painful experience, was not such a fool as to believe them; hidden behind an old cask, some faggots, or lying in a deep ditch, he remained silent as the grave, and kept himself close as long as possible.

Discovered, however, he was sure to be at last, when he would rush into the garden, and running up and down it like a mad creature, upset everything in his way; for several minutes it was a regular steeple-chase—across the beds, now over the turnips, then through the gooseberry-bushes; in short, he was here, there, and everywhere; but in spite of all his various stratagems to escape the fatal incision, the poor pig always finished by being seized, tied, thrown on the ground, and bled: the vein was then once more cleverly sewn up, and the inhuman operators quietly retired from the scene to make the cure's far-famed black-pudding. Half dead upon the spot where he was phlebotomized, the wretched animal was left to reflect under the shade of a tulip-tree on the cruelty of man, on their barbarous appetites; cursing with all his heart the poverty of Morvinian curates, their conceited hospitality, of which he was the victim, and their brutal affection for pig's blood.

I shall now endeavour to give the reader a description of the curate of the plain; but he should clearly understand that I do not present this character to him as the general standard of ecclesiastical excellence,—quite the contrary; I am sorry to say I think it an exception. My sketch, therefore, applies only to those cures, who reside in a remote rural district like that of Le Morvan; I advance nothing that I have not seen myself, and if I should ever have the pleasure of meeting any of my English friends in Le Morvan, I could introduce them to ten cures one and all similar in every respect to the ecclesiastic I am about to pourtray.

In the interior of this district, that is to say in the midst of her rich plains, and in the hilly but not mountainous parts of it, the cures are quite of another stamp; less poor than the herbivorous gentleman we have just described, but not so well to do as those of Burgundy; living under a state of things altogether peculiar to themselves, far from the great cities, and yet in direct communication with them, they are obliged by a common interest to identify themselves with the events of the day. Every curate of the plain possesses an immense influence in his parish and neighbourhood, and as at a moment their support may be of great use in a political point of view, the government, which is alive to everything, caresses, smiles on, and cajoles them.

In the moorland districts, also, and in the little villages which border the great forests, the cures are everything, and do everything. They perform the part of judge, doctor and apothecary, banker and architect, carpenter and schoolmaster; they give the designs for the cottages, mark the boundaries of estates, receive and put out the savings of their flocks, marry, baptize, and bury, offer consolation to the afflicted, encourage the unfortunate, purchase the crops, and sell a neighbour's vineyard. They represent the sun, by the influence of whose rays everything germinates and lives; it is their hand—the hand of justice—that arrests and heals all quarrels; the unselfish source from whence good counsels flow—the moral charter from which the peasant reads and learns the duties of a citizen.

Ask not the population of our plains and forests, and secluded agricultural districts, to which political party they belong; if they are republicans, royalists, socialists or communists, reds or blues, whites or tricolor,—they know nothing of all this. Their opinions—their religion—are those of Monsieur le Cure. They know his prudence, his charity, his good sense; they know he loves them like a father; that he would not leave them for a bishopric—no, not for a cardinal's scarlet hat;—that as he has lived, so will he die with them: that is enough for them. Thus they consult him when they wish to form an opinion for themselves, much in the same way as a sportsman, anxious to take the field, looks up at the chanticleer on some village-steeple to know what he ought to think of the cloudy sky above; and when they see the good man sauntering past their cottages, with head erect and animated step, smiling, and evidently full of cheerful, charitable thoughts, and on good deeds intent, kissing the little children, giving a rosy apple to one, and a playful tap to another; offering a sly word of hope to the young girls, and a few kind ones to the aged and infirm,—all the village is elated; and the old maids fail not to present him with a fat fowl, or some such substantial expression of their respect. But if, alas! the good cure should appear walking with a slow and solemn step, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and an anxious and thoughtful look upon his brow, his flock gaze at one another, and whisper in an under tone that something is amiss.

At the epoch of political convulsions and revolutions, when systems and governments, men and ideas, arise and disappear, as if they went by steam,—when the authorities in the great towns wish to interfere with the police regulations and customs that govern the agricultural classes,—when they attempt to force them to gallop at full speed on the high road of progress as they call it, and that to attain this desirable end, handsome young men arrive from Paris in black coats and white neckcloths, furnished with a marvellous flow of eloquent sophisms, pretending to prove to the simple and honest peasants that in order to be more free, happy, and rich, they must, without further ado, kill, burn, and destroy,—the villagers, quite mystified, listen with open mouth; but as to understanding what the gentleman in black—the dark shadow of the government of progress—so glibly states, he might as well be talking Turkish or Japanese. Every one looks at Monsieur le Cure, they scan his face, and ask him what they are to do; and let him only feel angry or disgusted with the wordy nonsense, and just make one sign, or raise one finger, and 1200—aye, 2000 men would in a trice surround him, and send the orator and all his staff to preach their pestilential doctrines under the turf, and this without more ceremony and remorse than if they were so many mad dogs. Poor fools! who think it possible to change a people in a few weeks, and imagine that a fine discourse from lips unknown and unloved will have a deeper effect upon men's minds than the admonitions of a pastor, whose life has been without reproach, and adorned with every practical virtue.

Yes, the influence exercised in our rural districts by the cures is great, and this influence is well merited, for it is never abused—and never used unless for the benefit and happiness of the flock confided to their care. Without any motive of a personal nature, without ambition in any sense to which that word can apply, they preach the Catholic religion in all its simplicity, accepting and considering as brothers all those who really desire to follow the example of their Saviour Christ—all those who really love to do good; unworldly and unselfish, they would think themselves dishonoured, their reputation sullied, if the gown, which gives them in the eyes of the people a sacred character, served as a cloak, a pretext to cover a dishonourable or disgraceful action.

It is also remarkable, and speaks volumes in their favour, that the bishops are almost always at war with these poor and self-denying cures, and would wish to see them take more interest in temporal affairs, which they do not in the least understand; they would fain put into their mouths the language of anger and bitter feeling, alike foreign to their natures and the religion of their Divine master. The large proprietors also, those who live on their estates and do not press hard upon their dependants, enjoy great consideration, and share largely with the cures the hold they have on the affections of the people. They frequently direct the opinions of the masses, and, with the exception of their pastors, are the only class our rural population know and revere. As to the generality of our statesmen, good, bad, or indifferent, their names, brilliant as they may be, are not half so well known in our villages as that of the most obscure labourer, the humble artizan who knows how to file a saw or make a wheel.

"Who is that gentleman, sir?" said a Morvinian of the plain to me one day, pointing to a tall thin man, with a bald head, and a pair of gold spectacles on his nose,—a notability of the legislative assembly who was going to step into the village tribune.

"That gentleman?" I replied; "he is an orator."

"Ah! an orator: and pray what sort of a bird is that? what is he going to chirrup about?"

"An orator is not a bird, my good fellow; he does not sing, he makes very fine speeches."

"And what of them?"

"What of them? why they teach men their duty."

"Their duty in what?" continued the peasant, with his pinching logic. "Is it the duty of a father, of a son, of a soldier, of a baker?"

"Not at all; the duty of a citizen."

"Citizen? I don't understand, sir," said the peasant.

"Well, your political duties, if you like it better."

"I am still none the wiser. And so this fine gentleman, with his yellow spectacles and bald head, is not going to tell us anything about crops, vineyards, planting, or sowing?"

"No; but he will teach you your duty as a man, as a Frenchman, a citizen—a member of the great human family; he will teach you your rights; what you can and should demand of your government under the articles 199, 305, 1202, 9999 of the charter—the last charter."

"Sir, I am ashamed to have troubled you; I thank you much for your explanation; I wish you a very good morning; for mathematics you see, sir, do send me to sleep, and our cure will tell me all about it on Sunday. I shall go back to the forest, and finish my job of yesterday."

And are not these simple-minded men much in the right? is not all the good sense on their side?—they, who living by the axe, the plough, and the produce of the earth, think only of their trees and their fields, and ask of God but health and strength to work, rain and sun to nourish the vines and gild their harvests. They leave to those who possess their confidence, because they have never deceived them, the care of their political interests; the care of setting and keeping them in the right path, and of directing them in that current of life, slow it is true, but which nevertheless is more effectual towards ameliorating the condition, and eventually increasing the happiness of the human race, than all the new-fangled doctrines promulgated by the statesmen and philosophers of France.



CHAPTER XVII.

The wolf—His aspect and extreme ferocity—His cunning in hunting his prey—His unsocial nature—Antiquity of the race—Where found, and their varieties—Annihilated in England by the perseverance of the kings and people—Decrees and rewards to encourage their destruction by Athelstane, John, and Edward I.—Death of the last wolf in England—Death of the last in Ireland.

The wild and furious wolf, both prudent and cowardly, is, from its strength and voracity, the terror and the most formidable pest of the inhabitants of those districts of France in which it is found. Provided by Nature with a craving appetite for blood, possessing great muscular powers, and an extraordinary scent, whether hunting or laying in ambush; always ready to pursue and tear its victim limb from limb, the wolf,—this tyrant,—this buccaneer of the forest lives only upon rapine, and loves nothing but carnage.

The aspect of the wolf has something sinister and terrible in its appearance, which his sanguinary and brutal disposition does not belie. His head is large, his eyes sparkle with a diabolical and cannibal look, and in the night seem to burn like two yellow flames. His muzzle is black, his cheeks are hollow, the upper lip and chin white, the jaws and teeth are of prodigious strength, the ears short and straight, the tail tufty, the opening of the mouth large, and the neck so short that he is obliged to move his whole body in order to look on one side. His length in our forests, from the extreme point of the muzzle to the root of the tail, is generally about three feet; his height two and a half feet. The colour of his hair is black and red, mingled with white and gray; a thick and rude fur, on which the showers and severe cold of winter have no effect. The limbs of this animal are well set, his step is firm and quick, the muscles of the neck and fore part of the body are of unusual strength,—he will easily carry off a fat sheep in his mouth, without resting it on the ground, and run with it faster than the shepherd who flies to its rescue. His senses are delicate and sensitive in the extreme; that of smelling, as I have before remarked, particularly: he can scent his prey at an immense distance,—blood which is fresh and flowing will attract him at least a league from the spot. When he leaves the forest, he never forgets to stop on its verge; there turning round, he snuffs the breeze, plunges his nostrils deep into the passing wind, and receives through his wonderful instinct a knowledge of what is going on amongst the animals, dead or alive, that are in the neighbourhood.

The declared and uncompromising enemy to almost everything that has life, the wolf attacks not only cows, oxen, horses, sheep, goats, and pigs, but also fowls and turkeys, and especially geese, for which he has a great fancy. In the woods also he destroys large quantities of game, such as fawns and roebucks; and even the wild boar himself, when young, is sometimes brought to his larder, for the wolf is one of that voracious tribe which professes a profound contempt for vegetable diet, and cannot do without flesh; hence the number of his devices for supplying his table and varying his bill of fare is astonishing. But mankind, it must be said in all justice, are not behindhand with him; they are always on the alert; they meet him with tricks as clever as his own, heap snare on snare to take him, and the result is that Mr. Lupus, in spite of his strength, his agility, his practical experience, and cunning instincts, often stretches out his limbs in death in the dark ravines of the forest—the victim of his enemy's superior intelligence.

Obliged during the day to hide himself in the most solitary parts of the woods, he finds there only those animals whose rapid flight enables them to escape his clutches. Sometimes, however, after the exercise of prodigious patience on his part, by lying in wait the whole day, at a spot where he knows they will be certain to pass when the sun goes down, a defenceless roebuck will occasionally fall into his jaws.

This chance on the sly producing nothing, when night has set in he seeks the open country, approaches the farms, attacks the sheepfolds, scratches his way under the doors, and entering wild with rage, puts everything to death—for, to his infernal spirit, destruction is as great a pleasure as the satisfaction of his hunger.