As you have already read in my _Mémoires_, although still young, I was an enthusiastic sportsman. As far as sport went, however, that is according to the usual acceptation of the word, I had none, except when my cousin, M. Deviolaine, the ranger of the forest at Villers-Cotterets, was kind enough to ask leave of my mother to take me with him. I filled up the remainder of my time with poaching. For this double function of sportsman and poacher I was well provided with a delightful single-barrelled gun, on which was engraven the monogram of the Princess Borghese, to whom it had originally belonged. My father had given it me when I was a child, and when, after his death, everything had to be sold, I implored so urgently to be allowed to keep my gun, that it was not sold with the other weapons, and the horses and carriages. The most enjoyable time for me was the winter; then the snow lay on the ground, and the birds, in their search for food, were ready to come wherever grain was sprinkled for them. Some of my father’s old friends had fine gardens, and I was at liberty to go and shoot the birds there as I liked. So I used to sweep the snow away, spread some grain, and, hiding myself within easy gun-shot, fire at the birds, sometimes killing six, eight, or even ten at a time. Then, if 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.”