“You are right, Mocquet! take him away! I am a poor fool.” And my mother turned aside, to wipe away a tear. A mother’s tear, that heart’s diamond, more precious than all the pearls of Ophir! I saw it running down her cheek. I ran to the poor woman, and whispered to her, “Mother, if you like, I will stay at home.” “No, no, go, my child,” she said, “Mocquet is right; you must, sooner or later, learn to be a man.” I gave her another last kiss; then I ran after Mocquet, who had already started. After I had gone a few paces, I looked round; my mother had run into the middle of the road, that she might keep me in sight as long as possible; it was my turn now to wipe away a tear. “How now?” said Mocquet, “you crying too, Monsieur Alexandre!” “Nonsense, Mocquet! it’s only the cold makes my eyes run.” But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying. VIII It was pitch dark when we reached Mocquet’s house. We had a savoury omelette and stewed rabbit for supper, and then Mocquet made my bed ready for me. He kept his word to my mother, for I had a good mattress, two white sheets and two good warm coverlids. “Now,” said Mocquet, “tuck yourself in there, and go to sleep; we may probably have to be off at four o’clock to-morrow morning.” “At any hour you like, Mocquet.” “Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and to-morrow morning I shall have to throw a jug of cold water over you to make you get up.” “You are welcome to do that, Mocquet, if you have to call me twice.” “Well, we’ll see about that.” “Are you in a hurry to go to sleep, Mocquet?” “Why, whatever do you want me to do at this hour of the night?” “I thought, perhaps, Mocquet, you would tell me one of those stories that I used to find so amusing when I was a child.” “And who is going to get up for me at two o’clock to-morrow, if I sit telling you tales till midnight? Our good priest, perhaps?” “You are right, Mocquet.” “It’s fortunate you think so!” So I undressed and went to bed. Five minutes later Mocquet was snoring like a bass viol. I turned and twisted for a good two hours before I could get to sleep. How many sleepless nights have I not passed on the eve of the first shoot of the season! At last, towards midnight fatigue gained the mastery over me. A sudden sensation of cold awoke me with a start at four o’clock in the morning; I opened my eyes. Mocquet had thrown my bed-clothes off over the foot of the bed, and was standing beside me, leaning both hands on his gun, his face beaming out upon me, as, at every fresh puff of his short pipe, the light from it illuminated his features. “Well, how have you got on, Mocquet?” “He has been tracked to his lair.” “The wolf? and who tracked him?” “This foolish old Mocquet.” “Bravo!” “But guess where he has chosen to take covert, this most accommodating of good wolves!” “Where was it then, Mocquet?”