CHAPTER XIII. THE WILD-BOAR
Sir John was just finishing that interesting bit of history when Madamede Montrevel and her daughter returned. Amelie, who did not know howmuch had been said about her between Roland and Sir John, was astoundedby the expression with which that gentleman scrutinized her.
To him she seemed more lovely than before. He could readily understandthat mother, who at the risk of life had been unwilling that thischarming creature should profane her youth and beauty by serving as amourner in a celebration of which Marat was the deity. He recalled thatcold damp cell which he had lately visited, and shuddered at the thoughtthat this delicate white ermine before his eyes had been imprisonedthere, without sun or air, for six weeks. He looked at the throat,too long perhaps, but swan-like in its suppleness and graceful in itsexaggeration, and he remembered that melancholy remark of the poorPrincesse de Lamballe, as she felt her slender neck: "It will not givethe executioner much trouble!"
The thoughts which succeeded each other in Sir John's mind gave to hisface an expression so different from its customary aspect, that Madamede Montrevel could not refrain from asking what troubled him. He thentold her of his visit to the prison, and Roland's pious pilgrimage tothe dungeon where his mother and sister had been incarcerated. Justas Sir John had concluded his tale, a view-halloo sounded without, andRoland entered, his hunting-horn in his hands.
"My dear friend," he cried, "thanks to my mother, we shall have asplendid 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 dogsof my dogs; so the result is, that to-day the pups, grand-pups, andgreat-grand-pups of Barbichon and Ravaude are as numerous as thedescendant 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 theireyes and hearts, and a regiment of cornet-tails that would do you goodto see."
And Roland sounded another halloo that brought his young brother to thescene.
"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 Amelie, lost in thought, tookno part in the discussion, "Roland, make Edouard listen to reason. Tellhim that he hasn't got common-sense."
But Roland, who recognized himself again in his young brother, insteadof 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 agun."
"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 agun."
"Naughty child," exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, trembling, "where didyou learn?"
"Why, from the gunsmith at Montagnac, who keeps papa's and Roland'sguns. You ask me sometimes what I do with my money, don't you? Well, Ibuy powder and balls with it, and I am learning to kill Austrians andArabs like my brother Roland."
Madame de Montrevel raised her hands to heaven.
"What can you expect, mother?" asked Roland. "Blood will tell. NoMontrevel 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 littlerifle that I will give you. It will keep you contented until your sabreand 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 Englandfor 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 mygun-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, Amelie, still absorbed in thought, rose and left theroom. Neither Madame de Montrevel nor Roland noticed her departure, sointerested were they in a serious discussion. Madame de Montreveltried to persuade Roland not to take his young brother with him on themorrow's hunt. Roland explained that, since Edouard was to become asoldier like his father and brother, the sooner he learned to handle agun and become familiar with powder and ball the better. The discussionwas not yet ended when Edouard returned with his gun slung over hisshoulder.
"Look, brother," said he, turning to Roland; "just see what a finepresent Sir John has given me." And he looked gratefully at Sir John,who stood in the doorway vainly seeking Amelie with his eyes.
It was in truth a beautiful present. The rifle, designed with thatplainness of ornament and simplicity of form peculiar to Englishweapons, was of the finest finish. Like the pistols, of which Rolandhad had opportunity to test the accuracy, the rifle was made by thecelebrated Manton, and carried a twenty-four calibre bullet. That it hadbeen originally intended for a woman was easily seen by the shortnessof the stock and the velvet pad on the trigger. This original purpose ofthe weapon made it peculiarly suitable for a boy of twelve.
Roland took the rifle from his brother's shoulder, looked at itknowingly, tried its action, sighted it, tossed it from one hand to theother, 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 Montrevelas sad as Thetis when she saw Achilles in his woman's garb draw thesword of Ulysses from its scabbard.
A quarter of an hour later, Edouard returned triumphantly. He broughthis mother a bit of pasteboard of the circumference of a hat, in whichhe had put ten bullets out of twelve. The two men had remained behind inthe park conversing.
Madame de Montrevel listened to Edouard's slightly boastful account ofhis prowess. Then she looked at him with that deep and holy sorrow ofmothers to whom fame is no compensation for the blood it sheds. Oh!ungrateful indeed is the child who has seen that look bent upon himand does not eternally remember it. Then, after a few seconds of thispainful contemplation, she pressed her second son to her breast, andmurmured sobbing: "You, too! you, too, will desert your mother someday."
"Yes, mother," replied the boy, "to become a general like my father, oran 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 escapedMadame de Montrevel. It was but an added dread to her other anxieties,among which Amelie's pallor and abstraction must be numbered.
Amelie was just seventeen; her childhood had been that of a happylaughing girl, joyous and healthy. The death of her father had cast ablack veil over her youth and gayety. But these tempests of spring passrapidly. Her smile, the sunshine of life's dawn, returned like that ofNature, sparkling through that dew of the heart we call tears.
Then, one day about six months before this story opens, Amelie's facehad saddened, her cheeks had grown pale, and, like the birds who migrateat the approach of wintry weather, the childlike laughter that escapedher parted lips and white te
eth had fled never to return.
Madame de Montrevel had questioned her, but Amelie asserted that she wasstill the same. She endeavored to smile, but as a stone thrown intoa lake rings upon the surface, so the smiles roused by this maternalsolicitude faded, little by little, from Amelie's face. With keenmaternal instinct Madame de Montrevel had thought of love. Butwhom could Amelie love? There were no visitors at the Chateau desNoires-Fontaines, the political troubles had put an end to all society,and Amelie went nowhere alone. Madame de Montrevel could get no furtherthan conjecture. Roland's return had given her a moment's hope; butthis hope fled as soon as she perceived the effect which this event hadproduced upon Amelie.
It was not a sister, but a spectre, it will be recalled, who had cometo meet him. Since her son's arrival, Madame de Montrevel had notlost sight of Amelie, and she perceived, with dolorous amazement, thatRoland's presence awakened a feeling akin to terror in his sister'sbreast. She, whose eyes had formerly rested so lovingly upon him, nowseemed to view him with alarm. Only a few moments since, Amelie hadprofited by the first opportunity to return to her room, the one spot inthe chateau where she seemed at ease, and where for the last six monthsshe had spent most of her time. The dinner-bell alone possessed thepower to bring her from it, and even then she waited for the second callbefore entering the dining-room.
Roland and Sir John, as we have said, had divided their time betweentheir visit to Bourg and their preparations for the morrow's hunt. Frommorn until noon they were to beat the woods; from noon till evening theywere to hunt the boar. Michel, that devoted poacher, confined to hischair for the present with a sprain, felt better as soon as the questionof the hunt was mooted, and had himself hoisted on a little horse thatwas used for the errands of the house. Then he sallied forth to collectthe beaters from Saint-Just and Montagnac. He, being unable to beator run, was to remain with the pack, and watch Sir John's and Roland'shorse, and Edouard's pony, in the middle of the forest, where it wasintersected by one good road and two practicable paths. The beaters,who could not follow the hunt, were to return to the chateau with thegame-bags.
The beaters were at the door at six the following morning. Michel wasnot to leave with the horses and dogs until eleven. The Chateau desNoires-Fontaines was just at the edge of the forest of Seillon, so thehunt could begin at its very gates.
As the battue promised chiefly deer and hares, the guns were loaded withballs. Roland gave Edouard a simple little gun which he himself had usedas a child. He had not enough confidence as yet in the boy's prudenceto trust him with a double-barrelled gun. As for the rifle that Sir Johnhad given him the day before, it could only carry cartridges. It wasgiven into Michel's safe keeping, to be returned to him in case theystarted a boar for the second part of the hunt. For this Roland andSir 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'sarsenal, and could be suspended from the belt or screwed on the point ofthe gun like bayonets.
From the beginning of the battue it was easy to see that the hunt wouldbe a good one. A roebuck and two hares were killed at once. At noon twodoes, seven roebucks and two foxes had been bagged. They had also seentwo boars, but these latter had only shaken their bristles in answer tothe 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 chateau with the game,as had been arranged. A sort of bugle was sounded to ascertain Michel'swhereabout, to which he answered. In less than ten minutes the threehunters 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 wasnow in the woods not a hundred paces distant. Jacques, Michel's eldestson, beat up the woods with Barbichon and Ravaude, the heads of thepack, and in about five minutes the boar was found in his lair. Theycould have killed him at once, or at least shot at him, but that wouldhave ended the hunt too quickly. The huntsmen launched the whole packat the animal, which, seeing this troop of pygmies swoop down uponhim, started off at a slow trot. He crossed the road, Roland giving theview-halloo, and headed in the direction of the Chartreuse of Seillon,the three riders following the path which led through the woods. Theboar led them a chase which lasted until five in the afternoon, turningupon his tracks, evidently unwilling to leave the forest with its thickundergrowth.
At last the violent barking of the dogs warned them that the animal hadbeen brought to bay. The spot was not a hundred paces distant fromthe pavilion belonging to the Chartreuse, in one of the most tangledthickets of the forest. It was impossible to force the horses throughit, and the riders dismounted. The barking of the dogs guided themstraight along the path, from which they deviated only where theobstacles they encountered rendered it necessary.
From time to time yelps of pain indicated that members of the attackingparty had ventured too close to the animal, and had paid the price oftheir temerity. About twenty feet from the scene of action the huntersbegan to see the actors. The boar was backed against a rock to avoidattack in the rear; then, bracing himself on his forepaws, he faced thedogs with his ensanguined eyes and enormous tusks. They quivered aroundhim like a moving carpet; five or six, more or less badly wounded, werestaining the battlefield with their blood, though still attacking theboar with a fury and courage that might have served as an example to thebravest 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 imprudentand the smallest, finding the path less difficult, owing to his small,stature, arrived first. Roland, heedless of danger of any kind, seekingrather than avoiding it, followed. Finally Sir John, slower, graver,more reflective, brought up the rear. Once the boar perceived hishunters he paid no further attention to the dogs. He fixed his gleaming,sanguinary eyes upon them; but his only movement was a snapping of thejaws, which he brought together with a threatening sound. Roland watchedthe scene for an instant, evidently desirous of flinging himself intothe midst of the group, knife in hand, to slit the boar's throat as abutcher would that of a calf or a pig. This impulse was so apparent thatSir John caught his arm, and little Edouard exclaimed: "Oh! brother, letme 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. Hisface was pale but resolute as he aimed the barrel of his rifle at theanimal's head.
"If he misses him, or only wounds him," observed Sir John, "you knowthat 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," repliedRoland, 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 stillgleamed through the smoke. But, as it rushed, it met Roland with hisknee 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 theshoulder, rolled the animal's body aside, and rose to his feet coveredwith blood, but without a single scratch. Little Edouard, either fromlack of time or from native courage, had not recoiled an inch. True, hewas completely protected by his brother's body, which was between himand 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 sameamazement that he had exp
erienced after the first.
The dogs--those that were left, some twenty in all--had followed theboar, and were now leaping upon his body in the vain effort to tear thebristles, which were almost as impenetrable as iron.
"You will see," said Roland, wiping the blood from his face and handswith a fine cambric handkerchief, "how they will eat him, and your knifetoo, 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 hesaid, was buried up to the hilt. The sharp point, guided by a calm eyeand a firm hand, had pierced the animal's heart.
There were other wounds on the boar's body. The first, caused by theboy's shot, showed a bloody furrow just over the eye; the blow had beentoo weak to crush the frontal bone. The second came from Sir John'sfirst shot; it had caught the animal diagonally and grazed his breast.The third, fired at close quarters, went through the body; but, asRoland had said, not until after the animal was dead.