This time I wept outright. A good shot would have killed four hares in my position; and, although I was only a beginner, I ought certainly to have killed two.
This was the end of the battue. M. Moquet came to me. Placed in a hollow, as I was, none of the other shooters had seen the triple misfortunes that had happened to me; but M. Moquet, having seen all the hares pass by me and hearing no reports, had come to find out whether I was dead or asleep.
I was simply desperate. I showed him my gun.
"The priming has burnt three times, M. Moquet," I cried, in woebegone tones; "three times over three hares!"
"A flash in the pan, eh?" asked M. Moquet.
"Yes, it missed fire.... What the deuce can be the matter with the breech?"
M. Moquet shook his head; then, like an old sportsman who is never at a loss, he took out of his bag a gun-screw, fitted it to the end of his ramrod, drew out first the wadding of my gun, then the shot, then the second lot of wadding, then the powder; then, after the powder, half an inch of earth which had got down the muzzle when I threw my gun after the hare, and which I had rammed to the bottom of the breech with my first wad on the powder.
If I had fired at a hundred hares my gun would have missed fire a hundred times.
Alas! so frail are human affairs! had it not been for that half inch of earth I should have killed two or three hares, and I should have been the king of the battue.
Every hare had passed my way, except one which had passed by M. Dumont of Morienval and been killed by him.