Mocquet did not like to have his words said differently from his own pronunciation. He replied: "I set a _pierge_ for mother Durand." "And where did you put it? At your door?" "At my door? Rather not! Do you think the old witch would go through my door? She would enter my bedroom in some unheard-of way." "By the chimney, perhaps?" "There isn't one. I never saw her until I felt her stamping on my chest: click, clack, click, clack!" "Well, where did you put the snare?" "The _pierge?_ I put it on my stomach, to be sure." "What sort of a snare did you use?" "Oh! a famous _pierge_, with an iron chain, which I passed round my wrist. It weighed about ten pounds. Oh! yes, ten or twelve pounds, at least." "And that night----?" "Oh! She was much worse that night. She generally kneads my chest with her goloshes, but that night she had clogs on." "And did she come like that?" "Every living night the good Lord made. I get so thin with it that I am becoming quite consumptive: but this morning I have made up my mind." "What have you decided to do, Mocquet?" "I have made up my mind to give her the contents of my gun." "That is a wise decision. When will you put it into execution?" "Oh, either to-night or to-morrow, General." "That's a nuisance, for I was just going to send you to Villers-Hellon." "Oh, that doesn't matter, General. Is what I have to do urgent?" "Very urgent." "Well, I can go to Villers-Hellon,--it is only four leagues,--and be back by night. That will make eight leagues in the day. We have put many more behind us in hunting, General." "True enough, Mocquet. I will give you a letter for M. Collard, and then you will set off." "Yes, I will start at once, General." My father got up and wrote to M. Collard. We will explain later who that gentleman was; in the meantime we will merely mention that he was one of my father's best friends. The letter was as follows:-- "MY DEAR COLLARD,--I send herewith my idiot of a guardsman, whom you know. He fancies an old woman bewitches him every night, and, to put an end to his vampire, he proposes, quite nonchalantly, to kill her. But as the law looks askance on such rough-and-ready methods of cure for nightmare, I send him to you on a trivial pretext. Send him to Danré de Youty, who, on some other pretext, must send him to Dulauloy, who--with or without a pretext--can send him to the devil if he wishes. "In short, his tour must be made to last a fortnight. During that time we shall have moved to Antilly, and then, as he will be no longer in the neighbourhood of Haramont, and as his nightmare will probably disappear during his journey, mother Durand may be able to sleep in peace--I should not advise her to do this while Mocquet lives in the district. "He brings you a dozen snipe and a hare which we shot yesterday when hunting in the marsh of Walue.