"I'll see to it too; she shall pay me for this, the old mole!"
The old mole was an expression of hatred which Mocquet had borrowed from Pierre, who, having no greater enemies than moles, dubbed all he detested by that name.
"We must look into this, Mocquet," my father had said; not that he believed in Mocquet's nightmare, not even that, admitting the existence of the nightmare, he believed it was mother Durand who had nightmared his guardsman. Nothing of the kind; but my father knew the superstitious nature of our peasants; he knew that a belief in spells was still largely prevalent in the countryside. He had heard some terrible tales of vengeance taken by folk who thought themselves bewitched, who had sought to break the spell by killing the person or persons who had bewitched them. And when Mocquet denounced mother Durand to my father, there was such a threatening accent in his voice, and he had pressed the butt of his rifle with so much intention, that my father deemed it wise policy to appear to chime in with Mocquet's opinion in order to keep a hold on him, so that he should not do anything before first consulting him.
"But before punishing her, my good Mocquet," my father said to him, "we must do our best to see if we cannot cure you of your nightmare."
"You cannot, General."
"Why not?"
"No, I have done everything possible."
"What have you done?"
"First I drank a large bowl of warm wine before going to bed."
"Who recommended you to do that? Was it M. Lécosse?"