“That won’t matter, General. Was it something that you wanted done at once?” “Yes, at once.” “Very well, then, I can go over to Villers-Hellon,--it’s not above a few miles, if I go through the wood--and get back here this evening; the journey both ways is only twenty-four miles, and we have covered a few more than that before now out shooting, General.” “That’s settled, then; I will write a letter for you to give to M. Collard, and then you can start.” “I will start, General, without a moment’s delay.” My father rose, and wrote to M. Collard; the letter was as follows: “MY DEAR COLLARD, “I am sending you that idiot of a keeper of mine, whom you know; he has taken into his head that an old woman _nightmares_ him every night, and, to rid himself of this vampire, he intends nothing more nor less than to kill her. “Justice, however, might not look favourably on this method of his for curing himself of indigestion, and so I am going to start him off to you on a pretext of some kind or other. Will you, also, on some pretext or other, send him on, as soon as he gets to you, to Danré, at Vouty, who will send him on to Dulauloy, who, with or without pretext, may then, as far as I care, send him on to the devil? “In short, he must be kept going for a fortnight at least. By that time we shall have moved out of here and shall be at Antilly, and as he will then no longer be in the district of Haramont, and as his nightmare will probably have left him on the way, Mother Durand will be able to sleep in peace, which I should certainly not advise her to do if Mocquet were remaining anywhere in her neighbourhood. “He is bringing you six brace of snipe and a hare, which we shot while out yesterday on the marshes of Vallue. “A thousand-and-one of my tenderest remembrances to the fair Herminie, and as many kisses to the dear little Caroline. “Your friend, “ALEX. DUMAS.” An hour later Mocquet was on his way, and, at the end of three weeks, he rejoined us at Antilly. “Well,” asked my father, seeing him reappear in robust health, “well, and how about Mother Durand?” “Well, General,” replied Mocquet cheerfully, “I’ve got rid of the old mole; it seems she has no power except in her own district.” VII Twelve years had passed since Mocquet’s nightmare, and I was now over fifteen years of age. It was the winter of 1817 to 1818; ten years before that date I had, alas! lost my father. We no longer had a Pierre for gardener, a Hippolyte for valet, or a Mocquet for keeper; we no longer lived at the Château of Les Fossés or in the villa at Antilly, but in the market-place of Villers Cotterets, in a little house opposite the fountain, where my mother kept a _bureau de tabac_, selling powder and shot as well over the same counter.