Читать книгу Werewolf Stories - Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг - Страница 15

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 to-morrow morning.”

“At any hour you like, Mocquet.”

“Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and to-morrow 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 to-morrow, 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 bed-clothes 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 your youth and put a bundle of wood in the fire-place.”

“I didn’t dare ask for it; but, on my word of honour, it will be kind of you if you will.”

Mocquet went out and brought in an armful of wood from the timber-yard, and threw it on to the hearth, poking it down with his foot; then he threw a lighted match among the twigs, and in another moment the clear bright flames were dancing and crackling up the chimney. I went and sat on the stool by the fireside, and there dressed myself; you may be sure that I was not long over my toilette; even Mocquet was astonished at my celerity.

“Now, then,” he said, “a drop of this, and then off!” And saying this, he filled two small glasses with a yellowish coloured liquor, which did not require any tasting on my part to recognize.

“You know I never drink brandy, Mocquet.”

“Ah, you are your father’s son, all over! What will you have, then?”

“Nothing, Mocquet, nothing.”

“You know the proverb: ‘Leave the house empty; the devil will be there.’ Believe me, you had better put something into your stomach, while I load your gun, for I must keep my promise to that poor mother of yours.”

“Well, then, I will have a crust of bread and a glass of pignolet.” Pignolet is a light wine made in non-winegrowing districts, generally said to require three men to drink it, one to drink, and two to hold him; I was, however, pretty well accustomed to pignolet, and could drink it up without help. So I swallowed my glass of wine while Mocquet loaded my gun.

“What are you doing, Mocquet?” I asked him.

“Making a cross on your bullet,” he replied. “As you will be near me, we shall probably let fly together, and, although I know you would give me up your share, still, for the glory of it, it will be as well to know which of us killed him, if the wolf falls. So, mind you aim straight.”

“I’ll do my best, Mocquet.”

“Here’s your gun, then, loaded for bird-shooting; and now, gun over your shoulder, and off we start.”