CHAPTER XIII
THE WILD-BOAR
Sir John was just finishing that interesting bit of history when
Madame de Montrevel and her daughter returned. Amélie, who did
not know how much had been said about her between Roland and Sir
John, was astounded by the expression with which that gentleman
scrutinized her.
To him she seemed more lovely than before. He could readily
understand that mother, who at the risk of life had been unwilling
that this charming creature should profane her youth and beauty
by serving as a mourner in a celebration of which Marat was the
deity. He recalled that cold damp cell which he had lately visited,
and shuddered at the thought that this delicate white ermine
before his eyes had been imprisoned there, without sun or air,
for six weeks. He looked at the throat, too long perhaps, but
swan-like in its suppleness and graceful in its exaggeration,
and he remembered that melancholy remark of the poor Princesse
de Lamballe, as she felt her slender neck: "It will not give
the executioner much trouble!"
The thoughts which succeeded each other in Sir John's mind gave
to his face an expression so different from its customary aspect,
that Madame de Montrevel could not refrain from asking what troubled
him. He then told her of his visit to the prison, and Roland's
pious pilgrimage to the dungeon where his mother and sister had
been incarcerated. Just as Sir John had concluded his tale, a
view-halloo sounded without, and Roland entered, his hunting-horn
in his hands.
"My dear friend," he cried, "thanks to my mother, we shall have
a splendid hunt to-morrow."
"Thanks to me?" queried Madame de Montrevel.
"How so?" added Sir John.
"I left you to see about my dogs, didn't I?"
"You said so, at any rate."
"I had two excellent beasts, Barbichon and Ravaude, male and female."
"Oh!" exclaimed Sir John, "are they dead?"
"Well, yes; but just guess what this excellent mother of mine
has done?" and, tilting Madame de Montrevel's head, he kissed
her on both cheeks. "She wouldn't let them drown a single puppy
because they were the dogs of my dogs; so the result is, that
to-day the pups, grand-pups, and great-grand-pups of Barbichon
and Ravaude are as numerous as the descendant of Ishmael. Instead
of a pair of dogs, I have a whole pack, twenty-five beasts, all
as black as moles with white paws, fire in their eyes and hearts,
and a regiment of cornet-tails that would do you good to see."
And Roland sounded another halloo that brought his young brother
to the scene.
"Oh!" shouted the boy as he entered, "you are going hunting
to-morrow, brother Roland. I'm going, too, I'm going, too!"
"Good!" said Roland, "but do you know what we are going to hunt?"
"No. All I know is that I'm going, too."
"We're going to hunt a boar."
"Oh, joy!" cried the boy, clapping his little hands.
"Are you crazy?" asked Madame de Montrevel, turning pale.
"Why so, madame mother, if you please?"
"Because boar hunts are very dangerous."
"Not so dangerous as hunting men. My brother got back safe from
that, and so will I from the other."
"Roland," cried Madame de Montrevel, while Amélie, lost in thought,
took no part in the discussion, "Roland, make Edouard listen to
reason. Tell him that he hasn't got common-sense."
But Roland, who recognized himself again in his young brother,
instead of blaming him, smiled at his boyish ardor. "I'd take
you willingly," said he, "only to go hunting one must at least
know how to handle a gun."
"Oh, Master Roland," cried Edouard, "just come into the garden
a bit. Put up your hat at a hundred yards, and I'll show you
how to handle a gun."
"Naughty child," exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, trembling, "where
did you learn?"
"Why, from the gunsmith at Montagnac, who keeps papa's and Roland's
guns. You ask me sometimes what I do with my money, don't you?
Well, I buy powder and balls with it, and I am learning to kill
Austrians and Arabs like my brother Roland."
Madame de Montrevel raised her hands to heaven.
"What can you expect, mother?" asked Roland. "Blood will tell.
No Montrevel could be afraid of powder. You shall come with us
to-morrow, Edouard."
The boy sprang upon his brother's neck.
"And I," said Sir John, "will equip you to-day like a regular
huntsman, just as they used to arm the knights of old. I have
a charming little rifle that I will give you. It will keep you
contented until your sabre and pistols come."
"Well," asked Roland, "are you satisfied now, Edouard?"
"Yes; but when will he give it to me? If you have to write to
England for it, I warn you I shan't believe in it."
"No, my little friend, we have only to go up to my room and open
my gun-case. That's soon done."
"Then, let's go at once."
"Come on," said Sir John; and he went out, followed by Edouard.
A moment later, Amélie, still absorbed in thought, rose and left
the room. Neither Madame de Montrevel nor Roland noticed her
departure, so interested were they in a serious discussion. Madame
de Montrevel tried to persuade Roland not to take his young brother
with him on the morrow's hunt. Roland explained that, since Edouard
was to become a soldier like his father and brother, the sooner
he learned to handle a gun and become familiar with powder and
ball the better. The discussion was not yet ended when Edouard
returned with his gun slung over his shoulder.
"Look, brother," said he, turning to Roland; "just see what a
fine present Sir John has given me." And he looked gratefully
at Sir John, who stood in the doorway vainly seeking Amélie with
his eyes.
It was in truth a beautiful present. The rifle, designed with
that plainness of ornament and simplicity of form peculiar to
English weapons, was of the finest finish. Like the pistols,
of which Roland had had opportunity to test the accuracy, the
rifle was made by the celebrated Manton, and carried a twenty-four
calibre bullet. That it had been originally intended for a woman
was easily seen by the shortness of the stock and the velvet
pad on the trigger. This original purpose of the weapon made it
peculiarly suitable for a boy of twelve.
Roland took the rifle from his brother's shoulder, looked at
it knowingly, tried its action, sighted it, tossed it from one
hand to the other, and then, giving it back to Edouard, said:
"Thank Sir John again. You have a rifle fit for a king's son.
Let's go and try it."
All three went out to try Sir John's rifle, leaving Madame de
Montrevel as sad as Thetis when she saw Achilles in his woman's
garb draw the sword of Ulysses from its scabbard.
A quarter of an hour later, Edouard returned triumphantly. He
brought his mother a bit of pasteboard of the circumference of
a hat, in which he had put ten bullets out of twelve. The two
men had remained behind in the park conversing.
Madame de Montrevel listened to Edouard's slightly boastful account
of his prowess. Then she looked at him with that deep and holy
sorrow of mothers to whom fame is no compensation for the blood
it sheds. Oh! ungrateful indeed is the child who has seen that
look bent upon him and does not eternally remember it. Then,
after a few seconds of this painful contemplation, she pressed
her second son to her breast, and murmured sobbing: "You, too!
you, too, will desert your mother some day."
"Yes, mother," replied the boy, "to become a general like my father,
or an aide-de-camp like Roland."
"And to be killed as your father was, as your brother perhaps
will be."
For the strange transformation in Roland's character had not
escaped Madame de Montrevel. It was but an added dread to her
other anxieties, among which Amélie's pallor and abstraction
must be numbered.
Amélie was just seventeen; her childhood had been that of a happy
laughing girl, joyous and healthy. The death of her father had
cast a black veil over her youth and gayety. But these tempests
of spring pass rapidly. Her smile, the sunshine of life's dawn,
returned like that of Nature, sparkling through that dew of the
heart we call tears.
Then, one day about six months before this story opens, Amélie's
face had saddened, her cheeks had grown pale, and, like the birds
who migrate at the approach of wintry weather, the childlike
laughter that escaped her parted lips and white teeth had fled
never to return.
Madame de Montrevel had questioned her, but Amélie asserted that
she was still the same. She endeavored to smile, but as a stone
thrown into a lake rings upon the surface, so the smiles roused
by this maternal solicitude faded, little by little, from Amélie's
face. With keen maternal instinct Madame de Montrevel had thought
of love. But whom could Amélie love? There were no visitors at
the Château des Noires-Fontaines, the political troubles had put
an end to all society, and Amélie went nowhere alone. Madame de
Montrevel could get no further than conjecture. Roland's return
had given her a moment's hope; but this hope fled as soon as she
perceived the effect which this event had produced upon Amélie.
It was not a sister, but a spectre, it will be recalled, who had
come to meet him. Since her son's arrival, Madame de Montrevel
had not lost sight of Amélie, and she perceived, with dolorous
amazement, that Roland's presence awakened a feeling akin to
terror in his sister's breast. She, whose eyes had formerly rested
so lovingly upon him, now seemed to view him with alarm. Only a
few moments since, Amélie had profited by the first opportunity
to return to her room, the one spot in the château where she
seemed at ease, and where for the last six months she had spent
most of her time. The dinner-bell alone possessed the power to
bring her from it, and even then she waited for the second call
before entering the dining-room.
Roland and Sir John, as we have said, had divided their time
between their visit to Bourg and their preparations for the morrow's
hunt. From morn until noon they were to beat the woods; from noon
till evening they were to hunt the boar. Michel, that devoted
poacher, confined to his chair for the present with a sprain, felt
better as soon as the question of the hunt was mooted, and had
himself hoisted on a little horse that was used for the errands
of the house. Then he sallied forth to collect the beaters from
Saint-Just and Montagnac. He, being unable to beat or run, was
to remain with the pack, and watch Sir John's and Roland's horse,
and Edouard's pony, in the middle of the forest, where it was
intersected by one good road and two practicable paths. The beaters,
who could not follow the hunt, were to return to the château with
the game-bags.
The beaters were at the door at six the following morning. Michel
was not to leave with the horses and dogs until eleven. The Château
des Noires-Fontaines was just at the edge of the forest of Seillon,
so the hunt could begin at its very gates.
As the battue promised chiefly deer and hares, the guns were
loaded with balls. Roland gave Edouard a simple little gun which
he himself had used as a child. He had not enough confidence as
yet in the boy's prudence to trust him with a double-barrelled
gun. As for the rifle that Sir John had given him the day before,
it could only carry cartridges. It was given into Michel's safe
keeping, to be returned to him in case they started a boar for
the second part of the hunt. For this Roland and Sir John were
also to change their guns for rifles and hunting knives, pointed
as daggers and sharp as razors, which formed part of Sir John's
arsenal, and could be suspended from the belt or screwed on the
point of the gun like bayonets.
From the beginning of the battue it was easy to see that the
hunt would be a good one. A roebuck and two hares were killed
at once. At noon two does, seven roebucks and two foxes had been
bagged. They had also seen two boars, but these latter had only
shaken their bristles in answer to the heavy balls and made off.
Edouard was in the seventh heaven; he had killed a roebuck. The
beaters, well rewarded for their labor, were sent to the château
with the game, as had been arranged. A sort of bugle was sounded
to ascertain Michel's whereabout, to which he answered. In less
than ten minutes the three hunters had rejoined the gardener
with his hounds and horses.
Michel had seen a boar which he had sent his son to head off,
and it was now in the woods not a hundred paces distant. Jacques,
Michel's eldest son, beat up the woods with Barbichon and Ravaude,
the heads of the pack, and in about five minutes the boar was
found in his lair. They could have killed him at once, or at least
shot at him, but that would have ended the hunt too quickly. The
huntsmen launched the whole pack at the animal, which, seeing
this troop of pygmies swoop down upon him, started off at a slow
trot. He crossed the road, Roland giving the view-halloo, and
headed in the direction of the Chartreuse of Seillon, the three
riders following the path which led through the woods. The boar
led them a chase which lasted until five in the afternoon, turning
upon his tracks, evidently unwilling to leave the forest with
its thick undergrowth.
At last the violent barking of the dogs warned them that the
animal had been brought to bay. The spot was not a hundred paces
distant from the pavilion belonging to the Chartreuse, in one
of the most tangled thickets of the forest. It was impossible
to force the horses through it, and the riders dismounted. The
barking of the dogs guided them straight along the path, from
which they deviated only where the obstacles they encountered
rendered it necessary.
From time to time yelps of pain indicated that members of the
attacking party had ventured too close to the animal, and had
paid the price of their temerity. About twenty feet from the
scene of action the hunters began to see the actors. The boar
was backed against a rock to avoid attack in the rear; then,
bracing himself on his forepaws, he faced the dogs with his
ensanguined eyes and enormous tusks. They quivered around him
like a moving carpet; five or six, more or less badly wounded,
were staining the battlefield with their blood, though still
attacking the boar with a fury and courage that might have served
as an example to the bravest men.
Each hunter faced the scene with the characteristic signs of his
age, nature and nation. Edouard, at one and the same time, the
most imprudent and the smallest, finding the path less difficult,
owing to his small, stature, arrived first. Roland, heedless of
danger of any kind, seeking rather than avoiding it, followed.
Finally Sir John, slower, graver, more reflective, brought up
the rear. Once the boar perceived his hunters he paid no further
attention to the dogs. He fixed his gleaming, sanguinary eyes upon
them; but his only movement was a snapping of the jaws, which
he brought together with a threatening sound. Roland watched the
scene for an instant, evidently desirous of flinging himself
into the midst of the group, knife in hand, to slit the boar's
throat as a butcher would that of a calf or a pig. This impulse
was so apparent that Sir John caught his arm, and little Edouard
exclaimed: "Oh! brother, let me shoot the boar!"
Roland restrained himself, and stacking his gun against a tree,
waited, armed only with his hunting-knife, which he had drawn
from its sheath.
"Very well," said he, "shoot him; but be careful about it."
"Oh! don't worry," retorted the child, between his set teeth.
His face was pale but resolute as he aimed the barrel of his
rifle at the animal's head.
"If he misses him, or only wounds him," observed Sir John, "you
know that the brute will be upon us before we can see him through
the smoke."
"I know it, my lord; but I am accustomed to these hunts," replied
Roland, his nostrils quivering, his eyes sparkling, his lips
parted: "Fire, Edouard!"
The shot followed the order upon the instant; but after the shot,
with, or even before it, the beast, swift as lightning, rushed
upon the child. A second shot followed the first, but the animal's
scarlet eyes still gleamed through the smoke. But, as it rushed,
it met Roland with his knee on the ground, the knife in his hand.
A moment later a tangled, formless group, man and boar, boar
and man, was rolling on the ground. Then a third shot rang out,
followed by a laugh from Roland.
"Ah! my lord," cried the young man, "you've wasted powder and
shot. Can't you see that I have ripped him up? Only get his body
off of me. The beast weighs at least four hundred pounds, and
he is smothering me."
But before Sir John could stoop, Roland, with a vigorous push
of the shoulder, rolled the animal's body aside, and rose to his
feet covered with blood, but without a single scratch. Little
Edouard, either from lack of time or from native courage, had
not recoiled an inch. True, he was completely protected by his
brother's body, which was between him and the boar. Sir John had
sprung aside to take the animal in the flank. He watched Roland,
as he emerged from this second duel, with the same amazement that
he had experienced after the first.
The dogs--those that were left, some twenty in all--had followed
the boar, and were now leaping upon his body in the vain effort
to tear the bristles, which were almost as impenetrable as iron.
"You will see," said Roland, wiping the blood from his face and
hands with a fine cambric handkerchief, "how they will eat him,
and your knife too, my lord."
"True," said Sir John; "where is the knife?"
"In its sheath," replied Roland.
"Ah!" exclaimed the boy, "only the handle shows."
He sprang toward the animal and pulled out the poniard, which,
as he said, was buried up to the hilt. The sharp point, guided
by a calm eye and a firm hand, had pierced the animal's heart.
There were other wounds on the boar's body. The first, caused
by the boy's shot, showed a bloody furrow just over the eye; the
blow had been too weak to crush the frontal bone. The second came
from Sir John's first shot; it had caught the animal diagonally
and grazed his breast. The third, fired at close quarters, went
through the body; but, as Roland had said, not until after the
animal was dead.
