Werewolf Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

the snow lasted, there was another thing to look forward to,—the chance of tracing a wolf to its lair, and a wolf so traced was everybody’s property. The wolf, being a public enemy, a murderer beyond the pale of the law, might be shot at by all or anyone, and so, in spite of my mother’s cries, who dreaded the double danger for me, you need not ask if I seized my gun, and was first on the spot ready for sport.

      The winter of 1817 to 1818 had been long and severe; the snow was lying a foot deep on the ground, and so hard frozen that it had held for a fortnight past, and still there were no tidings of anything.

      Towards four o’clock one afternoon Mocquet called upon us; he had come to lay in his stock of powder. While so doing, he looked at me and winked with one eye. When he went out, I followed.

      “What is it, Mocquet?” I asked, “tell me.”

      “Can’t you guess, Monsieur Alexandre?”

      “No, Mocquet.”

      “You don’t guess, then, that if I come and buy powder here from Madame, your mother, instead of going to Haramont for it,—in short, if I walk three miles instead of only a quarter that distance, that I might possibly have a bit of a shoot to propose to you?”

      “Oh, you good Mocquet! and what and where?”

      “There’s a wolf, Monsieur Alexandre.”

      “Not really?”

      “He carried off one of M. Destournelles’ sheep last night, I have traced him to the Tillet woods.”

      “And what then?”

      “Why then, I am certain to see him again to-night, and shall find out where his lair is, and to-morrow morning we’ll finish his business for him.”

      “Oh, this is luck!”

      “Only, we must first ask leave....”

      “Of whom, Mocquet?”

      “Leave of Madame.”

      “All right, come in, then, we will ask her at once.”

      My mother had been watching us through the window; she suspected that some plot was hatching between us.

      “I have no patience with you, Mocquet,” she said, as we went in, “you have no sense or discretion.”

      “In what way, Madame?” asked Mocquet.

      “To go exciting him in the way you do; he thinks too much of sport as it is.”

      “Nay, Madame, it is with him, as with dogs of breed; his father was a sportsman, he is a sportsman, and his son will be a sportsman after him; you must make up your mind to that.”

      “And supposing some harm should come to him?”

      “Harm come to him with me? With Mocquet? No, indeed! I will answer for it with my own life, that he shall be safe. Harm happen to him, to him, the General’s son? Never, never, never!”

      But my poor mother shook her head; I went to her and flung my arms round her neck.

      “Mother, dearest,” I cried, “please let me go.”

      “You will load his gun for him, then, Mocquet?”

      “Have no fear, sixty grains of powder, not a grain more or less, and a twenty to the pound bullet.”

      “And you will not leave him?”

      “I will stay by him like his shadow.”

      “You will keep him near you?”

      “Between my legs.”

      “I give him into your sole charge, Mocquet.”

      “And he shall be given back to you safe and sound. Now, Monsieur Alexandre, gather up your traps, and let us be off; your mother has given her permission.”

      “You are not taking him away this evening, Mocquet.”

      “I must, Madame, to-morrow morning will be too late to fetch him; we must hunt the wolf at dawn.”

      “The wolf! it is for a wolf-hunt that you are asking for him to go with you?”

      “Are you afraid that the wolf will eat him?”

      “Mocquet! Mocquet!”

      “But when I tell you that I will be answerable for everything!”

      “And where will the poor child sleep?”

      “With father Mocquet, of course, he will have a good mattress laid on the floor, and sheets white as those which God has spread over the fields, and two good warm coverlids; I promise you that he shall not catch cold.”

      “I shall be all right, mother, you may be sure! Now then, Mocquet, I am ready.”

      “And you don’t even give me a kiss, you poor boy, you!”

      “Indeed, yes, dear mother, and a good many more than one!”

      And I threw myself on my mother’s neck, stifling her with my caresses as I clasped her in my arms.

      “And when shall I see you again?”

      “Oh, do not be uneasy if he does not return before to-morrow evening.”

      “How, to-morrow evening! and you spoke of starting at dawn!”

      “At dawn for the wolf; but if we miss him, the lad must have a shot or two at the wild ducks on the marshes of Vallue.”

      “I see! you are going to drown him for me!”

      “By the name of all that’s good, Madame, if I was not speaking to the General’s widow—I should say——”

      “What Mocquet? What would you say?”

      “That you will make nothing but a wretched milksop of your boy.... If the General’s mother had been always behind him, pulling at his coat-tails, as you are behind this child, he would never even have had the courage to cross the sea to France.”

      “You are right, Mocquet! take him away! I am a poor fool.”

      And my mother turned aside, to wipe away a tear.

      A mother’s tear, that heart’s diamond, more precious than all the pearls of Ophir! I saw it running down her cheek. I ran to the poor woman, and whispered to her, “Mother, if you like, I will stay at home.”

      “No, no, go, my child,” she said, “Mocquet is right; you must, sooner or later, learn to be a man.”

      I gave her another last kiss; then I ran after Mocquet, who had already started.

      After I had gone a few paces, I looked round; my mother had run into the middle of the road, that she might keep me in sight as long as possible; it was my turn now to wipe away a tear.

      “How now?” said Mocquet, “you crying too, Monsieur Alexandre!”

      “Nonsense, Mocquet! it’s only the cold makes my eyes run.”

      But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying.

      VIII

      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