VIII
Before going out to shoot that day, I thought it only right to give M. Charpillon an account of Pritchard’s proceedings. He regarded him, therefore with mingled feelings, in which admiration was more prominent than sympathy, and it was agreed that on our return the dog should be shut up in the stable, and that the stable-door should be bolted and padlocked. Pritchard, unsuspicious of our designs, ran on in front with a proud step and with his tail in the air.
‘You know,’ said Charpillon, ‘that neither men nor dogs are allowed to go into the vineyards. I ought as a magistrate to set an example, and Gaignez still more, as he is the mayor. So mind you keep in Pritchard.’
‘All right,’ said I, ‘I will keep him in.’
But Michel, approaching, suggested that I should send Pritchard home with him. ‘It would be safer,’ he said. ‘We are quite near the house, and I have a notion that he might get us into some scrape by hunting in the vineyards.’
‘Don’t be afraid, Michel; I have thought of a plan to prevent him.’
Michel touched his hat. ‘I know you are clever, sir—very clever; but I don’t think you are as clever as that!’
‘Wait till you see.’
‘Indeed, sir, you will have to be quick, for there is Pritchard hunting already.’
We were just in time to see Pritchard disappear into a vineyard, and a moment afterwards he raised a covey of partridges.
‘Call in your dog,’ cried Gaignez.
I called Pritchard, who, however, turned a deaf ear.
‘Catch him,’ said I to Michel.
Michel went, and returned in a few minutes with Pritchard in a leash. In the meantime I had found a long stake, which I hung crosswise round his neck, and let him go loose with this ornament. Pritchard understood that he could no longer go through the vineyards, but the stake did not prevent his hunting, and he only went a good deal further off on the open ground.
From this moment there was only one shout all along the line.
‘Hold in your dog, confound him!’
‘Keep in your Pritchard, can’t you! He’s sending all the birds out of shot!’
‘Look here! Would you mind my putting a few pellets into your brute of a dog? How can anybody shoot if he won’t keep in?’
‘Michel,’ said I, ‘catch Pritchard again.’
‘I told you so, sir. Luckily we are not far from the house; I can still take him back.’
‘Not at all. I have a second idea. Catch Pritchard.’
‘After all,’ said Michel, ‘this is nearly as good fun as if we were shooting.’
And by-and-bye he came back, dragging Pritchard by his stake. Pritchard had a partridge in his mouth.
‘Look at him, the thief!’ said Michel. ‘He has carried off M. Gaignez’s partridge—I see him looking for it.’
‘Put the partridge in your game-bag, Michel; we will give him a surprise.’
Michel hesitated. ‘But,’ said he, ‘think of the opinion this rascal will have of you!’
‘What, Michel? do you think Pritchard has a bad opinion of me?’
‘Oh, sir! a shocking opinion.’
‘But what makes you think so?’
‘Why, sir, do you not think that Pritchard knows in his soul and conscience that when he brings you a bird that another gentleman has shot, he is committing a theft?’
‘I think he has an idea of it, certainly, Michel.’
‘Well, then, sir, if he knows he is a thief, he must take you for a receiver of stolen goods. Look at the articles of the Code; it is said there that receivers are equally guilty with thieves, and should be similarly punished.’
‘PRITCHARD REAPPEARED NEXT MOMENT WITH A HARE IN HIS MOUTH’
‘Michel, you open my eyes to a whole vista of terrors. [!-- original location of Hare illustration --] [!-- blank page --] But we are going to try to cure Pritchard of hunting. When he is cured of hunting, he will be cured of stealing.’
‘Never, sir! You will never cure Pritchard of his vices.’
Still I pursued my plan, which was to put Pritchard’s fore-leg through his collar. By this means, his right fore-foot being fastened to his neck, and his left hind-foot being cut off, he had only two to run with, the left fore-foot and the right hind-foot.
‘Well, indeed,’ said Michel, ‘if he can hunt now, the devil is in it.’
He loosed Pritchard, who stood for a moment as if astonished, but once he had balanced himself he began to walk, then to trot; then, as he found his balance better, he succeeded in running quicker on his two legs than many dogs would have done on four.
‘Where are we now, sir?’ said Michel.
‘It’s that beast of a stake that balances him!’ I replied, a little disappointed. ‘We ought to teach him to dance upon the tight-rope—he would make our fortunes as an acrobat.’
‘You are joking again, sir. But listen! do you hear that?’
The most terrible imprecations against Pritchard were resounding on all sides. The imprecations were followed by a shot, then by a howl of pain.
‘That is Pritchard’s voice,’ said Michel. ‘Well, it is no more than he deserves.’
Pritchard reappeared the next moment with a hare in his mouth.
‘Michel, you said that was Pritchard that howled.’
‘I would swear to it, sir.’
‘But how could he howl with a hare in his mouth?’
Michel scratched his head. ‘It was he all the same,’ he said, and he went to look at Pritchard.
‘Oh, sir!’ he said, ‘I was right. The gentleman he took the hare from has shot him. His hind-leg is all over blood. Look! there is M. Charpillon running after his hare.’
‘You know that I have just put some pellets into your Pritchard?’ Charpillon called out as soon as he saw me.
‘You did quite right.’
‘He carried off my hare.’
‘There! You see,’ said Michel, ‘it is impossible to cure him.’
‘But when he carried away your hare, he must have had it in his mouth?’
‘Of course. Where else would he have it?’
‘But how could he howl with a hare in his mouth?’
‘He put it down to howl, then he took it up again and made off.’
‘There’s deceit for you, gentlemen!’ exclaimed Michel.
Pritchard succeeded in bringing the hare to me, but when he reached me he had to lie down.
‘I say,’ said Charpillon, ‘I hope I haven’t hurt him more than I intended—it was a long shot.’ And forgetting his hare, Charpillon knelt down to examine Pritchard’s wound. It was a serious one; Pritchard had received five or six pellets about the region of his tail, and was bleeding profusely.
‘Oh, poor beast!’ cried Charpillon. ‘I wouldn’t have fired that shot for all the hares in creation if I had known.’
‘Bah!’ said Michel; ‘he won’t die of it.’ And, in fact, Pritchard, after spending three weeks with the vet. at St.-Germains, returned to Monte Cristo perfectly cured, and with his tail in the air once more.