“You are not taking him away this evening, Mocquet.”
“I must, Madame, tomorrow morning will be too late to fetch him; we must hunt the wolf at dawn.”
“The wolf! it is for a wolf-hunt that you are asking for him to go with you?”
“Are you afraid that the wolf will eat him?”
“Mocquet! Mocquet!”
“But when I tell you that I will be answerable for everything!”
“And where will the poor child sleep?”
“With father Mocquet, of course, he will have a good mattress laid on the floor, and sheets white as those which God has spread over the fields, and two good warm coverlids; I promise you that he shall not catch cold.”
“I shall be all right, mother, you may be sure! Now then, Mocquet, I am ready.”
“And you don’t even give me a kiss, you poor boy, you!”
“Indeed, yes, dear mother, and a good many more than one!”
And I threw myself on my mother’s neck, stifling her with my caresses as I clasped her in my arms.
“And when shall I see you again?”
“Oh, do not be uneasy if he does not return before tomorrow evening.”
“How, tomorrow evening! and you spoke of starting at dawn!”
“At dawn for the wolf; but if we miss him, the lad must have a shot or two at the wild ducks on the marshes of Vallue.”
“I see! you are going to drown him for me!”
“By the name of all that’s good, Madame, if I was not speaking to the General’s widow—I should say—”
“What Mocquet? What would you say?”
“That you will make nothing but a wretched milksop of your boy. … If the General’s mother had been always behind him, pulling at his coattails, as you are behind this child, he would never even have had the courage to cross the sea to France.”
“You are right, Mocquet! take him away! I am a poor fool.”
And my mother turned aside, to wipe away a tear.
A mother’s tear, that heart’s diamond, more precious than all the pearls of Ophir! I saw it running down her cheek. I ran to the poor woman, and whispered to her, “Mother, if you like, I will stay at home.”
“No, no, go, my child,” she said, “Mocquet is right; you must, sooner or later, learn to be a man.”
I gave her another last kiss; then I ran after Mocquet, who had already started.
After I had gone a few paces, I looked round; my mother had run into the middle of the road, that she might keep me in sight as long as possible; it was my turn now to wipe away a tear.
“How now?” said Mocquet, “you crying too, Monsieur Alexandre!”
“Nonsense, Mocquet! it’s only the cold makes my eyes run.”
But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying.
VIII
It was pitch dark when we reached Mocquet’s house. We had a savoury omelette and stewed rabbit for supper, and then Mocquet made my bed ready for me. He kept his word to my mother, for I had a good mattress, two white sheets and two good warm coverlids.
“Now,” said Mocquet, “tuck yourself in there, and go to sleep; we may probably have to be off at four o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“At any hour you like, Mocquet.”
“Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and tomorrow morning I shall have to throw a jug of cold water over you to make you get up.”
“You are welcome to do that, Mocquet, if you have to call me twice.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
“Are you in a hurry to go to sleep, Mocquet?”
“Why, whatever do you want me to do at this hour of the night?”
“I thought, perhaps, Mocquet, you would tell me one of those stories that I used to find so amusing when I was a child.”
“And who is going to get up for me at two o’clock tomorrow, if I sit telling you tales till midnight? Our good priest, perhaps?”
“You are right, Mocquet.”
“It’s fortunate you think so!”
So I undressed and went to bed. Five minutes later Mocquet was snoring like a bass viol.
I turned and twisted for a good two hours before I could get to sleep. How many sleepless nights have I not passed on the eve of the first shoot of the season! At last, towards midnight fatigue gained the mastery over me. A sudden sensation of cold awoke me with a start at four o’clock in the morning; I opened my eyes. Mocquet had thrown my bedclothes off over the foot of the bed, and was standing beside me, leaning both hands on his gun, his face beaming out upon me, as, at every fresh puff of his short pipe, the light from it illuminated his features.
“Well, how have you got on, Mocquet?”
“He has been tracked to his lair.”
“The wolf? and who tracked him?”
“This foolish old Mocquet.”
“Bravo!”
“But guess where he has chosen to take covert, this most accommodating of good wolves!”
“Where was it then, Mocquet?”
“If I gave you a hundred chances you wouldn’t guess! in the Three Oaks Covert.”
“We’ve got him, then?”
“I should rather think so.”
The Three Oaks Covert is a patch of trees and undergrowth, about two acres in extent, situated in the middle of the plain of Largny, about five hundred paces from the forest.
“And the keepers?” I went on.
“All had notice sent them,” replied Mocquet; “Moynat, Mildet, Vatrin, Lafeuille, all the best shots in short, are waiting in readiness just outside the forest. You and I, with Monsieur Charpentier, from Vallue, Monsieur Hochedez, from Largny, Monsieur Destournelles, from Les Fossés, are to surround the Covert; the dogs will be slipped, the field-keeper will go with them, and we shall have him, that’s certain.”
“You’ll put me in a good place, Mocquet?”
“Haven’t I said that you will be near me; but you must get up first.”
“That’s true—Brrou!”
“And I am going to have pity on
