"Oh, it is nothing but a scratch; the beggar's skin was so tough that my knife shut up."
"Yes, and in shutting up it has cut off your finger," said M. Deviolaine.
"Clean off, M. l'inspecteur—clean off!" And Choron held up his right hand, from which the first joint of the index finger had gone.
Then, out of the silence that this sight produced, he said as he went up to M. Deviolaine:—
"It is quite right, M. l'inspecteur, that was the finger with which I killed my uncle ..."
"But that wound must be attended to, Choron."
"Take care of that? Bah! it is not worth making a fuss about! If the wind gets to it it will soon heal."
And with that Choron reopened his knife and cut the beast up as coolly as if nothing had happened.
At the following hunt, instead of a knife Choron brought a poignard, the shape of a bayonet, with a Spanish guard to it which covered the whole hand. It had been made to his order by his brother, who was the gunsmith of Villers-Cotterets. This poignard could neither break nor bend, and thrust by Choron's fist it could penetrate to the very heart of an oak tree. The same scene I have just described again took place, only this time the boar remained in its place, and had its throat cut like a domestic pig.