The Wolf
This is what the old Marquis d'Arville told us after St. Hubert's dinnerat the house of the Baron des Ravels.We had killed a stag that day. The marquis was the only one of theguests who had not taken part in this chase. He never hunted.During that long repast we had talked about hardly anything but theslaughter of animals. The ladies themselves were interested in bloodyand exaggerated tales, and the orators imitated the attacks and thecombats of men against beasts, raised their arms, romanced in athundering voice.M. d Arville talked well, in a certain flowery, high-sounding, buteffective style. He must have told this story frequently, for he told itfluently, never hesitating for words, choosing them with skill to makehis description vivid.Gentlemen, I have never hunted, neither did my father, nor mygrandfather, nor my great-grandfather. This last was the son of a manwho hunted more than all of you put together. He died in 1764. I willtell you the story of his death.His name was Jean. He was married, father of that child who became mygreat-grandfather, and he lived with his younger brother, Francoisd'Arville, in our castle in Lorraine, in the midst of the forest.Francois d'Arville had remained a bachelor for love of the chase.They both hunted from one end of the year to the other, without stoppingand seemingly without fatigue. They loved only hunting, understoodnothing else, talked only of that, lived only for that.They had at heart that one passion, which was terrible and inexorable.It consumed them, had completely absorbed them, leaving room for no otherthought.They had given orders that they should not be interrupted in the chasefor any reason whatever. My great-grandfather was born while his fatherwas following a fox, and Jean d'Arville did not stop the chase, butexclaimed: "The deuce! The rascal might have waited till after the view-halloo!"His brother Franqois was still more infatuated. On rising he went to seethe dogs, then the horses, then he shot little birds about the castleuntil the time came to hunt some large game.In the countryside they were called M. le Marquis and M. le Cadet, thenobles then not being at all like the chance nobility of our time, whichwishes to establish an hereditary hierarchy in titles; for the son of amarquis is no more a count, nor the son of a viscount a baron, than a sonof a general is a colonel by birth. But the contemptible vanity of todayfinds profit in that arrangement.My ancestors were unusually tall, bony, hairy, violent and vigorous.The younger, still taller than the older, had a voice so strong that,according to a legend of which he was proud, all the leaves of the forestshook when he shouted.When they were both mounted to set out hunting, it must have been asuperb sight to see those two giants straddling their huge horses.Now, toward the midwinter of that year, 1764, the frosts were excessive,and the wolves became ferocious.They even attacked belated peasants, roamed at night outside the houses,howled from sunset to sunrise, and robbed the stables.And soon a rumor began to circulate. People talked of a colossal wolfwith gray fur, almost white, who had eaten two children, gnawed off awoman's arm, strangled all the watch dogs in the district, and even comewithout fear into the farmyards. The people in the houses affirmed thatthey had felt his breath, and that it made the flame of the lightsflicker. And soon a panic ran through all the province. No one dared goout any more after nightfall. The darkness seemed haunted by the imageof the beast.The brothers d'Arville determined to find and kill him, and several timesthey brought together all the gentlemen of the country to a great hunt.They beat the forests and searched the coverts in vain; they never methim. They killed wolves, but not that one. And every night after abattue the beast, as if to avenge himself, attacked some traveller orkilled some one's cattle, always far from the place where they had lookedfor him.Finally, one night he stole into the pigpen of the Chateau d'Arville andate the two fattest pigs.The brothers were roused to anger, considering this attack as a directinsult and a defiance. They took their strong bloodhounds, used topursue dangerous animals, and they set off to hunt, their hearts filledwith rage.From dawn until the hour when the empurpled sun descended behind thegreat naked trees, they beat the woods without finding anything.At last, furious and disgusted, both were returning, walking their horsesalong a lane bordered with hedges, and they marvelled that their skill ashuntsmen should be baffled by this wolf, and they were suddenly seizedwith a mysterious fear.The elder said:"That beast is not an ordinary one. You would say it had a mind like aman."The younger answered:"Perhaps we should have a bullet blessed by our cousin, the bishop, orpray some priest to pronounce the words which are needed."Then they were silent.Jean continued:"Look how red the sun is. The great wolf will do some harm to-night."He had hardly finished speaking when his horse reared; that of Franqoisbegan to kick. A large thicket covered with dead leaves opened beforethem, and a mammoth beast, entirely gray, jumped up and ran off throughthe wood.Both uttered a kind of grunt of joy, and bending over the necks of theirheavy horses, they threw them forward with an impulse from all theirbody, hurling them on at such a pace, urging them, hurrying them away,exciting them so with voice and with gesture and with spur that theexperienced riders seemed to be carrying the heavy beasts between 4their thighs and to bear them off as if they were flying.Thus they went, plunging through the thickets, dashing across the beds ofstreams, climbing the hillsides, descending the gorges, and blowing thehorn as loud as they could to attract their people and the dogs.And now, suddenly, in that mad race, my ancestor struck his foreheadagainst an enormous branch which split his skull; and he fell dead on theground, while his frightened horse took himself off, disappearing in thegloom which enveloped the woods.The younger d'Arville stopped quick, leaped to the earth, seized hisbrother in his arms, and saw that the brains were escaping from the woundwith the blood.Then he sat down beside the body, rested the head, disfigured and red, onhis knees, and waited, regarding the immobile face of his elder brother.Little by little a fear possessed him, a strange fear which he had neverfelt before, the fear of the dark, the fear of loneliness, the fear ofthe deserted wood, and the fear also of the weird wolf who had justkilled his brother to avenge himself upon them both.The gloom thickened; the acute cold made the trees crack. Francois gotup, shivering, unable to remain there longer, feeling himself growingfaint. Nothing was to be heard, neither the voice of the dogs nor thesound of the horns-all was silent along the invisible horizon; and thismournful silence of the frozen night had something about it terrific andstrange.He seized in his immense hands the great body of Jean, straightened it,and laid it across the saddle to carry it back to the chateau; then hewent on his way softly, his mind troubled as if he were in a stupor,pursued by horrible and fear-giving images.And all at once, in the growing darkness a great shape crossed his path.It was the beast. A shock of terror shook the hunter; something cold,like a drop of water, seemed to glide down his back, and, like a monkhaunted of the devil, he made a great sign of the cross, dismayed at thisabrupt return of the horrible prowler. But his eyes fell again on theinert body before him, and passing abruptly from fear to anger, he shookwith an indescribable rage.Then he spurred his horse and rushed after the wolf.He followed it through the copses, the ravines, and the tall trees,traversing woods which he no longer recognized, his eyes fixed on thewhite speck which fled before him through the night.His horse also seemed animated by a force and strength hitherto unknown.It galloped straight ahead with outstretched neck, striking againsttrees, and rocks, the head and the feet of the dead man thrown across thesaddle. The limbs tore out his hair; the brow, beating the huge trunks,spattered them with blood; the spurs tore their ragged coats of bark.Suddenly the beast and the horseman issued from the forest and rushedinto a valley, just as the moon appeared above the mountains. The valleyhere was stony, inclosed by enormous rocks.Francois then uttered a yell of joy which the echoes repeated like a pealof thunder, and he leaped from his horse, his cutlass in his hand.The beast, with bristling hair, the back arched, awaited him, its eyesgleaming like two stars. But, before beginning battle, the stronghunter, seizing his brother, seated him on a rock, and, placing stonesunder his head, which was no more than a mass of blood, he shouted in theears as if he was talking to a deaf man: "Look, Jean; look at this!"Then he attacked the monster. He felt himself strong enough to overturna mountain, to bruise stones in his hands. The beast tried to bite him,aiming for his stomach; but he had seized the fierce animal by the neck,without even using his weapon, and he strangled it gently, listening tothe cessation of breathing in its throat and the beatings of its heart.He laughed, wild with joy, pressing closer and closer his formidableembrace, crying in a delirium of joy, "Look, Jean, look!" All resistanceceased; the body of the wolf became limp. He was dead.Franqois took him up in his arms and carried him to the feet of the elderbrother, where he laid him, repeating, in a tender voice: "There, there,there, my little Jean, see him!"Then he replaced on the saddle the two bodies, one upon the other, androde away.He returned to the chateau, laughing and crying, like Gargantua at thebirth of Pantagruel, uttering shouts of triumph, and boisterous with joyas he related the death of the beast, and grieving and tearing his beardin telling of that of his brother.And often, later, when he talked again of that day, he would say, withtears in his eyes: "If only poor Jean could have seen me strangle thebeast, he would have died content, that I am sure!"The widow of my ancestor inspired her orphan son with that horror of thechase which has transmitted itself from father to son as far down asmyself.The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked:"That story is a legend, isn't it?"And the story teller answered:"I swear to you that it is true from beginning to end."Then a lady declared, in a little, soft voice"All the same, it is fine to have passions like that."
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