"But he is going," said M. Martin--"going with the wild cats and the wolves. The Pyrenees are degenerating, monsieur; you never hear of a man being hugged to death now. Poor Bruin! For, after all, monsieur, he is a gentlemanly beast; he never kills the sheep wantonly. He always chooses the best, which is but natural, and walks off with it. But the wolf--_sacré nom du diable!_--the wolf--a _coquin_--a brigand--a _Basque tonnere_--he will slaughter a flock in a night. _Mon Dieu!_ he laps blood till he gets drunk on it. A _voleur_--a _mauvais sujet_--a _cochon_--a dam beast!" "But do the Pyrenean wolves ever attack men?" "_Sacré! Monsieur; tenez._ There was Jacques Blitz--an honest man, a farmer in the hills; he came down to Pau, when the snow was deep, and the winter hard. I saw him in Pau. Well, in the afternoon he started to go home again. It looked threatening, and people advised him to stay; but no; and off he went. Monsieur, that night in his cottage they heard, hour by hour, the howling of the wolves, and often went out, but could see nothing. Poor Jacques did not return, and at sunrise they were all off in search; and sure enough they found a skeleton, clean picked, and the bones all shining in the snow. Only, monsieur, the feet were still whole in the sabots: the wolves had gnawed the wood, but could not break it. 'Take off the sabots!' screamed the wife. And they did so: and she gave a shuddering gasp, and said, 'They are Jacques' feet!' and tumbled down into the snow. _Sacré peste_, the cannibals! Curse the wolves--here's to their extirpation!"