it; it’s incredible how he can last this long!”
The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had missed an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some remaining seated others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre Chicot held them back:
“You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might as well make use of ‘em.”
The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by little; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later. Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer everyone up.
The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window, which had been opened.
Madame Chicot explained her distress:
“That’s how he’s been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn’t he sound like a pump that has gone dry?”
When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold, the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that there would not be enough. But four remained over.
Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:
“Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much when he was alive.”
A big, jovial peasant declared:
“He won’t eat any more now. Each one in his turn.”
This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up. It was their turn now to eat dumplings.
Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellar continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were beginning to shout as they do at feasts.
Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, held there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared at the window and cried in a shrill voice:
“He’s dead! he’s dead!”
Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other, looking down, ill at ease. They hadn’t finished eating the dumplings. Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved.
They kept repeating:
“I knew it couldn’t ‘last. If he could only have done it last night, it would have saved us all this trouble.”
Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all, and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.
The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the chance to see him and of getting something to eat.
And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, her face distorted with grief:
“We’ll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn’t he have made up his mind last night?”
The husband, more resigned, answered:
“Well, we’ll not have to do this every day.”
THE GAMEKEEPER
It was after dinner, and we were talking about adventures and accidents which happened while out shooting.
An old friend, known to all of us, M. Boniface, a great sportsman and a connoisseur of wine, a man of wonderful physique, witty and gay, and endowed with an ironical and resigned philosophy, which manifested itself in caustic humor, and never in melancholy, suddenly exclaimed:
“I know a story, or rather a tragedy, which is somewhat peculiar. It is not at all like those which one hears of usually, and I have never told it, thinking that it would interest no one.
“It is not at all sympathetic. I mean by that, that it does not arouse the kind of interest which pleases or which moves one agreeably.
“Here is the story:
“I was then about thirty-five years of age, and a most enthusiastic sportsman.
“In those days I owned a lonely bit of property in the neighborhood of Jumieges, surrounded by forests and abounding in hares and rabbits. I was accustomed to spending four or five days alone there each year, there not being room enough to allow of my bringing a friend with me.
“I had placed there as gamekeeper, an old retired gendarme, a good man, hot-tempered, a severe disciplinarian, a terror to poachers and fearing nothing. He lived all alone, far from the village, in a little house, or rather hut, consisting of two rooms downstairs, with kitchen and storeroom, and two upstairs. One of them, a kind of box just large enough to accommodate a bed, a cupboard and a chair, was reserved for my use.
“Old man Cavalier lived in the other one. When I said that he was alone in this place, I was wrong. He had taken his nephew with him, a young scamp about fourteen years old, who used to go to the village and run errands for the old man.
“This young scapegrace was long and lanky, with yellow hair, so light that it resembled the fluff of a plucked chicken, so thin that he seemed bald. Besides this, he had enormous feet and the hands of a giant.
“He was cross-eyed, and never looked at anyone. He struck me as being in the same relation to the human race as ill-smelling beasts are to the animal race. He reminded me of a polecat.
“He slept in a kind of hole at the top of the stairs which led to the two rooms.
“But during my short sojourns at the Pavilion — so I called the hut — Marius would give up his nook to an old woman from Ecorcheville, called Celeste, who used to come and cook for me, as old man Cavalier’s stews were not sufficient for my healthy appetite.
“You now know the characters and the locality. Here is the story:
“It was on the fifteenth of October, 1854 — I shall remember that date as long as I live.
“I left Rouen on horseback, followed by my dog Bock, a big Dalmatian hound from Poitou, full-chested and with a heavy jaw, which could retrieve among the bushes like a Pont-Andemer spaniel.
“I was carrying my satchel slung across my back and my gun diagonally across my chest. It was a cold, windy, gloomy day, with clouds scurrying across the sky.
“As I went up the hill at Canteleu, I looked over the broad valley of the Seine, the river winding in and out along its course as far as the eye could see. To the right the towers of Rouen stood out against the sky, and to the left the landscape was bounded by the distant slopes covered with trees. Then
