It was autumn, the russet-coloured season, and the leaves were whirling about on the grass like flights of birds. One noticed the smell of damp earth in the air, of the naked earth, as one smells the odour of naked flesh, when a woman’s dress falls from her, after a ball.
One evening in the previous spring, during an entertainment, Madame d’Avancelles had said to Monsieur de Croissard, who was worrying her by his importunities: “If I do succumb to you, my friend, it will not be before the fall of the leaf. I have too many things to do this summer to have any time for it.” He had not forgotten that bold and amusing speech, and every day he became more pressing, every day he advanced in his approaches, and gained a step in the heart of the fair, audacious woman, who seemed only to be resisting for form’s sake.
It was the eve of a great wild-boar hunt, and Madame Berthe said to the Baron with a laugh: “Baron, if you kill the brute, I shall have something for you.” And so, at dawn he was up and out, to try to discover where the wild animal had its lair. He accompanied his beaters, settled the places for the relays, and organized everything personally to insure his triumph, and when the horns gave the signal for setting out, he appeared in a closely-fitting coat of scarlet and gold, with his waist drawn in tight, his chest expanded, his eyes radiant, and as fresh and strong as if he had just got out of bed. They set out, and the wild boar started off through the underwood as soon as he was dislodged, followed by the hounds in full cry, while the horses set off at a gallop through the narrow paths of the forest, and the carriages, which followed the chase at a distance, drove noiselessly along the soft roads.
Out of mischief, Madame d’Avancelles kept the Baron by her side, lagging behind at a walk in an interminably long and straight alley, over which four rows of oaks hung, so as to form almost an arch, while he, trembling with love and anxiety, listened with one ear to the young woman’s bantering chatter, while with the other he listened to the blast of the horns and to the cry of the hounds as they receded in the distance.
“So you do not love me any longer?” she observed. “How can you say such things?” he replied. And she continued: “But you seem to be paying more attention to the sport than to me.” He groaned, and said: “Did you not order me to kill the animal myself?” And she replied gravely: “Of course I am counting on that. You must kill it before my eyes.”
Then he trembled in his saddle, spurred his horse until it reared, and, losing all patience, exclaimed: “But, by Jove, Madame, that is impossible if we remain here.” And she retorted laughingly: “But it must be done or … so much the worse for you.” Then she spoke tenderly to him, laying her hand on his arm, or stroking his horse’s mane, as if by mistake.
Just then they turned to the right, into a narrow path which was overhung by trees, and suddenly, to avoid a branch which barred their way, she leaned towards him so closely, that he felt her hair tickling his neck, and he suddenly threw his arms brutally round her and, pressing her forehead with his thick moustache, he gave her a furious kiss.
At first she did not move, and remained motionless under that mad caress; then she turned her head with a jerk, and either by accident or design her little lips met his, under their tuft of fair hair, and a moment afterwards, either from confusion or remorse, she struck her horse with her riding-whip, and went off at full gallop, and they rode on like that for a time, without even exchanging a look.
The noise of the hunt came nearer, the thickets seemed to tremble, and suddenly the wild boar broke through the bushes, covered with blood, and trying to shake off the hounds which had fastened upon him, and the Baron, uttering a shout of triumph, exclaimed: “Let him who loves me follow me!” And he disappeared in the copse, as if the wood had swallowed him up.
When she reached an open glade a few minutes later, he was just getting up, covered with mud, his coat torn, and his hands bloody, while the brute was lying stretched out at full length, with the Baron’s hunting knife driven into its shoulder up to the hilt.
The quarry was cut by torchlight on a night that was wild and melancholy. The moon threw a yellow light on the torches, which made the night misty with their resinous smoke. The hounds devoured the wild boar’s stinking entrails, and snarled and fought for them, while the beaters and the gentlemen, standing in a circle round the spoil, blew their horns’ as loud as they could. The flourish of the hunting-horns resounded beyond the woods on that still night and was repeated by the echoes of the distant valleys, awaking the timid stags, rousing the yelping foxes, and disturbing the little grey rabbits in their gambols at the edge of the glades.
The frightened night-birds flew over the eager pack of hounds, while the women, who were moved by all these gentle and violent things, leaned rather heavily on the men’s arms; and turned aside into the pathways, before the hounds had finished their meal. Madame d’Avancelles, feeling languid after that day of fatigue and tenderness, said to the Baron: “Will you take a turn in the
