It was under his guidance that I had permission to shoot. We recognised one another, I greeted him with delight, and off we set. The great Saint Hubert alone knows what sport we had that day!
When the Revolution of 1848 caused shooting prerogatives in the royal forests to pass into the hands of private individuals, Biche gave up shooting. The privilege allowed to keepers in former days, of killing as many rabbits for their own private consumption as they liked, has now been taken away. Furthermore, they have now been deprived of their guns, and reduced to carrying only a stick by way of weapon.
On my last visit to Compiègne one of my friends, who rented a tenth part of the forest of Laigue, gave me all these particulars.
"Oh! heavens!" I cried, "my poor Biche; surely he has died of grief at being deprived of his gun?"
"Biche!" replied my interlocutor; "don't you be uneasy, he kills more with his stick than the whole lot of us with our rifles."
So I was partially comforted on Biche's behalf.
I profited marvellously under Biche's tuition, but such great happiness could not last long.
Impunity begets confidence, confidence tends to foolhardiness.
One fine day towards the end of February 1815, when the sun was shining brilliantly on a carpet of snow, about a foot in depth, I followed a thrush, which was flitting from tree to tree, with such close attention that I did not notice I was myself being followed. At length it seemed to settle in the middle of a bunch of mistletoe. I made a gun of my stick, adjusted it, and fired.