I do not know how to paint it in words, but I have seen it, even as you have. Mocquet's nightmare was no monkey with big eyes, or fantastic monster of Hugo's imagination reproduced by the brush of Delacroix, by the pencil of Boulanger, or by the chisel of Feuchères; none of these, it was a little old woman, who lived in the village of Haramont, about a quarter of a league from our château des Fossés, whom Mocquet considered in the light of his personal enemy. One morning very early Mocquet, came into my father's room before he was up and stood by the bedside. "Well, Mocquet, what is the matter?" asked my father. "Why that melancholy face?" "General, I have been _nightmared_," replied Mocquet solemnly. Mocquet, all unconsciously, had enriched the language with an active verb. "Oh! you have been _nightmared_--have you?" exclaimed my father, as he raised himself on one elbow. "Yes, General." And Mocquet drew his cutty-pipe out of his mouth, a thing he rarely did, and only under very serious provocation. Now this pipe was more than an accessary to Mocquet--it was an integral part of the man. No one had ever seen Mocquet without his pipe. If, by chance, it was out of his mouth, he held it in his hand. This pipe, intended to accompany Mocquet into the midst of the thickest forests, presented the least possible surface that could encounter destruction by contact with any solid body. Now the destruction of a well seasoned cutty-pipe would, in Mocquet's eyes, mean a loss that only the work of years could repair. The stem of this pipe of Mocquet's never projected more than half an inch. This habit of never being without his pipe had filed a hollow between Mocquet's incisors and canine teeth: it had also led to another habit, that of speaking through his shut teeth, which gave a peculiarly impressive character to all he said; for nothing prevented his teeth from keeping tight shut. "How long have you been _nightmared_, my poor Mocquet?" my father asked. "For a whole week, General." "By whom?" "Oh! I know well enough who it is," he replied, shutting his teeth tighter than ever. "Indeed, may I know who it is?" "That old witch, mother Durand, General!" "Mother Durand of Haramont?" "Yes, hard enough." "The deuce, Mocquet--we must look into this!" "I'll see to it too; she shall pay me for this, the old mole!" _The old mole_ was an expression of hatred which Mocquet had borrowed from Pierre, who, having no greater enemies than moles, dubbed all he detested by that name.