Werewolf Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

to Croyolles Mill. The Sergeant replied that he had come in search of a lad, belonging to the Mill, who, after drinking with him to his Majesty’s health and signed his engagement, had not re-appeared. The lad in question, interrogated as to his name and dwelling-place, had declared himself to be one Landry, living with Madame Polet, a widow, owner of the Mill at Croyolles. On the strength of this declaration, he had now come to Madame Polet, widow, of Croyolles Mill, to reclaim the defaulter.

      The widow, quite convinced that it was permissible to lie for a good cause, assured the Sergeant that she knew nothing of Landry, nor had any one of that name ever been at the Mill.

      The Sergeant in reply said that Madame had the finest eyes and the most charming mouth in the world, but that was no reason why he should implicitly believe the glances of the one or the words of the other. He was bound, therefore, he continued, “to ask the fair widow to allow him to search the Mill.”

      The search was begun, in about five minutes the Sergeant came back into the room and asked Madam Polet for the key of her room. The widow appeared very much surprised and shocked at such a request, but the Sergeant was so persistent and determined that at last she was forced to give up the key. A minute or two later, and the Sergeant walked in again, dragging Landry in after him by the collar of his coat. When the widow saw them both enter, she turned deadly pale. As for Thibault, his heart beat so violently, that he thought it would burst, for without the black wolf’s assistance, he was sure the Sergeant would never have gone to look for Landry where he had found him.

      “Ah! ah! my good fellow!” cried the Sergeant in a mocking voice, “so we prefer the service of beauty to the King’s service? That is easy to understand; but when one has the good fortune to be born in his Majesty’s domains and to have drunk his health, one has to give him a share of service, when his turn comes. So you must come along with us, my fine fellow, and after a few years in the King’s uniform, you can come back and serve under your old flag. So, now then, march!”

      “But,” cried the widow, “Landry is not yet twenty, and you have not the right to take him under twenty.”

      “She is right,” added Landry, “I am not twenty yet.”

      “And when will you be twenty?”

      “Not until to-morrow.”

      “Good,” said the Sergeant, “we will put you to-night on a bed of straw, like a medlar, and by to-morrow, at day-break, when we wake you up, you will be ripe.”

      Landry wept. The widow prayed, pleaded, implored, allowed herself to be kissed by the soldiers, patiently endured the coarse pleasantry excited by her sorrow, and at last offered a hundred crowns to buy him off. But all was of no avail. Landry’s wrists were bound, and then one of the soldiers taking hold of the end of the cord, the party started off, but not before the lad of the mill had found time to assure his dear mistress, that far or near, he would always love her, and that, if he died, her name would be the last upon his lips. The beautiful widow, on her side, had lost all thought of the world’s opinion in face of this great catastrophe, and before he was led away, she clasped Landry to her heart in a tender embrace.

      When the little party had disappeared behind the willows, and she lost sight of them, the widow’s distress became so overpowering that she became insensible, and had to be carried and laid on her bed. Thibault lavished upon her the most devoted attention. He was somewhat taken aback at the strong feeling of affection which the widow evinced for his cousin; however, as this only made him applaud himself the more for having cut at the root of the evil, he still cherished the most sanguine hopes.

      On coming to herself, the first name the widow uttered was that of Landry, to which Thibault replied with a hypocritical gesture of commiseration. Then the mistress of the mill began to sob. “Poor lad!” she cried, while the hot tears flowed down her cheeks, “what will become of him, so weak and delicate as he is? The mere weight of his gun and knapsack will kill him!”

      Then turning to her guest, she continued:

      “Ah! Monsieur Thibault, this is a terrible trouble to me, for you no doubt have perceived that I love him? He was gentle, he was kind, he had no faults; he was not a gambler, nor a drinker; he would never have opposed my wishes, would never have tyrannised over his wife, and that would have seemed very sweet to me after the two cruel years that I lived with the late M. Polet. Ah! Monsieur Thibault, Monsieur Thibault! It is a sad grief indeed for a poor miserable woman to see all her anticipations of future happiness and peace thus suddenly swallowed up!”

      Thibault thought this would be a good moment to declare himself; whenever he saw a woman crying, he immediately thought, most erroneously, that she only cried because she wished to be consoled.

      He decided, however, that he would not be able to attain his object without a certain circumlocution.

      “Indeed,” he answered, “I quite understand your sorrow, nay, more than that, I share it with you, for you cannot doubt the affection I bear my cousin. But we must resign ourselves, and without wishing to deny Landry’s good qualities, I would still ask you, Madame, to find someone else who is his equal.”

      “His equal!” exclaimed the widow, “there is no such person. Where shall I find so nice and so good a youth? It was a pleasure to me to look at his smooth young face, and with it all, he was so self-composed, so steady in his habits! He was working night and day, and yet I could with a glance make him shrink away and hide. No, no, Monsieur Thibault, I tell you frankly, the remembrance of him will prevent me ever wishing to look at another man, and I know that I must resign myself to remaining a widow for the rest of my life.”

      “Phew!” said Thibault; “but Landry was very young!”

      “There is no disadvantage in that,” replied the widow.

      “But who knows if he would always have retained his good qualities. Take my advice, Madame, do not grieve any more, but, as I say, look out for some one who will make you forget him. What you really need is not a baby-face like that, but a grown man, possessing all the qualities that you admire and regret in Landry, but, at the same time sufficiently mature to prevent the chance of finding one fine day that all your illusions are dispersed, and that you are left face to face with a libertine and a bully.”

      The mistress of the Mill shook her head; but Thibault went on:

      “In short, what you need, is a man who while earning your respect, will, at the same time make the Mill work profitably. You have but to say the word, and you would not have to wait long before you found yourself well provided for, my fair Madame, a good bit better than you were just now.”

      “And where am I to find this miracle of a man?” asked the widow, as she rose to her feet, looking defiantly at the shoe-maker, as if throwing down a challenge. The latter, mistaking the tone in which these last words were said, thought it an excellent occasion to make known his own proposals, and accordingly hastened to profit by it.

      “Well, I confess,” he answered, “that when I said that a handsome widow like you would not have to go far before finding the man who would be just the very husband for her, I was thinking of myself, for I should reckon myself fortunate, and should feel proud, to call myself your husband. Ah! I assure you,” he went on, while the mistress of the Mill stood looking at him with ever-increasing displeasure in her eyes, “I assure you that with me you would have no occasion to fear any opposition to your wishes: I am a perfect lamb in the way of gentleness, and I should have but one law and one desire, my law would be to obey you, my desire to please you! and as to your fortune, I have means of adding to it which I will make known to you later on....”

      But the end of Thibault’s sentence remained unspoken.

      “What!” cried the widow, whose fury was the greater for having been kept in check until then, “What! you, whom I thought my friend, you dare to speak of replacing him in my heart! you try to dissuade me from keeping my faith to your cousin. Get out of the place, you worthless scoundrel! out of the place, I say! or I will not answer for the consequences; I have a good mind to get four of my men to collar you and throw you under the Mill-wheel.”

      Thibault