As we went out M. Deviolaine pointed out to me a six-foot gate in Choron's garden, over which he had seen my father vault when the house was being built, ill though he was at that time.
This tradition had reached Choron's ears, who had more than once tried to do the same, but had never succeeded.
The special feature of these hunting-parties, which were principally composed of keepers, was the total absence of craques (= bragging: excuse the word, please, it is peculiar to sportsmen). Each person knew his neighbour too well, and was himself known too well, to try to impose upon him by any of those flagrant lies by which the frequenters of the plain of St. Denis enhance their prowess. Everybody knew who were the clever and who the duffers; due homage was given to the clever, and no mercy was shown towards the duffers.
Among these was a man called Niquet, nicknamed Bobino, because of his passion, in his boyish days, for the game of peg-top which goes by that name. He was looked upon as a lad of parts; but to this reputation there was added one, none the less deserved, of being the very clumsiest shot of the whole party.
So Choron's and Moinat's, Mildet's and Berthelin's fine performances were discussed, but poor Bobino was chaffed to death.
He would retaliate with some ludicrous cock-and-bull story, to which his Provençal accent gave a most diverting touch.
On this particular day, M. Deviolaine had thought it best to change the topic of the joke, without intending to change their point of attack. Bobino was still to be teased, but not on account of his clumsiness this time.
He was to be twitted about his mistress.
Bobino had a mistress.... Why not?