had so far gained an influence over Mocquet, my father ventured to say:
“But before you make her pay for it, my good Mocquet, you ought to be quite sure that no one can cure you of your nightmare.”
“No one can cure me, General,” replied Mocquet in a tone of conviction.
“How! No one able to cure you?”
“No one; I have tried the impossible.”
“And how did you try?”
“First of all, I drank a large bowl of hot wine before going to bed.”
“And who recommended that remedy? was it Monsieur Lécosse?” Monsieur Lécosse was the doctor in repute at Villers-Cotterets.
“Monsieur Lécosse?” exclaimed Mocquet. “No, indeed! What should he know about spells! By my faith, no! it was not Monsieur Lécosse.”
“Who was it, then?”
“It was the shepherd of Longpré.”
“But a bowl of wine, you dunderhead! Why, you must have been dead drunk.”
“The shepherd drank half of it.”
“I see; now I understand why he prescribed it. And did the bowl of wine have any effect?”
“Not any, General; she came trampling over my chest that night, just as if I had taken nothing.”
“And what did you do next? You were not obliged, I suppose, to limit your efforts to your bowl of hot wine?”
“I did what I do when I want to catch a wily beast.”
Mocquet made use of a phraseology which was all his own; no one had ever succeeded in inducing him to say a wild beast; every time my father said wild beast, Mocquet would answer, “Yes, General, I know, a wily beast.”
“You still stick to your wily beast, then?” my father said to him on one occasion.
“Yes, General, but not out of obstinacy.”
“And why then, may I ask?”
“Because, General, with all due respect to you, you are mistaken about it.”
“Mistaken? I? How?”
“Because you ought not to say a wild beast, but a wily beast.”
“And what is a wily beast, Mocquet?”
“It is an animal that only goes about at night; that is, an animal that creeps into the pigeon-houses and kills the pigeons, like the pole-cat, or into the chicken-houses, to kill the chickens, like the fox; or into the folds, to kill the sheep, like the wolf; it means an animal which is cunning and deceitful, in short, a wily beast.”
It was impossible to find anything to say after such a logical definition as this. – My father, therefore, remained silent, and Mocquet, feeling that he had gained a victory, continued to call wild beasts, wily beasts, utterly unable to understand my father’s obstinacy in continuing to call wily beasts, wild beasts.
So now you understand why, when my father asked him what else he had done, Mocquet answered, “I did what I do when I want to catch a wily beast.”
We have interrupted the conversation to give this explanation; but as there was no need of explanation between my father and Mocquet, they had gone on talking, you must understand, without any such break.
VI
“And what is it you do, Mocquet, when you want to catch this animal of yours?” asked my father.
“I set a trarp, General.” Mocquet always called a trap a trarp.
“Do you mean to tell me you have set a trap to catch Mother Durand?”
My father had of course said trap; but Mocquet did not like anyone to pronounce words differently from himself, so he went on:
“Just so, General; I have set a trarp for Mother Durand.”
“And where have you put your trarp? Outside your door?”
My father, you see, was willing to make concessions.
“Outside my door! Much good that would be! I only know she gets into my room, but I cannot even guess which way she comes.”
“Down the chimney, perhaps?”
“There is no chimney, and besides, I never see her until I feel her.”
“And you do see her, then?”
“As plainly I see you, General.”
“And what does she do?”
“Nothing agreeable, you may be sure; she tramples all over my chest: thud, thud! thump, thump!”
“Well, where have you set your trap, then?”
“The trarp, why, I put it on my own stomach.”
“And what kind of a trarp did you use?”
“Oh! a first-rate trarp!”
“What was it?”
“The one I made to catch the grey wolf with, that used to kill M. Destournelles’ sheep.”
“Not such a first-rate one, then, for the grey wolf ate up your bait, and then bolted.”
“You know why he was not caught, General.”
“No, I do not.”
“Because it was the black wolf that belonged to old Thibault, the sabot-maker.”
“It could not have been Thibault’s black wolf, for you said yourself just this moment that the wolf that used to come and kill M. Destournelles’ sheep was a grey one.”
“He is grey now, General; but thirty years ago, when Thibault the sabot-maker was alive, he was black; and, to assure you of the truth of this, look at my hair, which was black as a raven’s thirty years ago, and now is as grey as the Doctor’s.”
The Doctor was a cat, an animal of some fame, that you will find mentioned in my Mémoires and known as the Doctor on account of the magnificent fur which nature had given it for a coat.
“Yes,” replied my father, “I know your tale about Thibault, the sabot-maker; but, if the black wolf is the devil, Mocquet, as you say he is, he would not change colour.”
“Not at all, General; only it takes him a hundred years to become quite white, and the last midnight of every hundred years, he turns black as a coal again.”
“I give up the case, then, Mocquet: all I ask is, that you will not tell my son this fine tale of yours, until he is fifteen at least.”
“And why, General?”
“Because
