On this paper were traced these few lines in a hand still firm:—
"M. L'INSPECTEUR,—You will find one of the wolves in Duquesnoy Wood; the other has decamped.
"Farewell, M. Deviolaine.... I told you truly that some misfortune would come to me.—Yours devotedly,
"CHORON—Head Keeper."
What I said a while back about small towns and their pleasing memories can be said still more truly with regard to terrible recollections.
Such a catastrophe, happening in the faubourg Saint-Martin, in the rue Poissonnière, or on the place du Palais-Royal, might have left an impression for a week, or a fortnight, or a month at the most.
But in the little town of Villers-Cotterets, on the highroad leading to Soissons, which passed by the ill-fated house itself, through the beautiful arches of green foliage made by oaks and beeches, planted centuries before, beneath which keepers take their noiseless way, talking only in low tones, the event I have just recorded is as vividly remembered to-day as if it had just happened, and everyone will tell it you as I have done.
Alas! poor Choron! when I entered your house and saw you growing deathly pale, with those half-empty bottles by your side and your body still palpitating faintly, your dog licking the wound, I little imagined I should one day become the biographer of your obscure life and tragic death!
[CHAPTER V]
My mother realises that I am fifteen years old, and that la marette and la pipée will not lead to a brilliant future for me—I enter the office of Me. Mennesson, notary, as errand-boy, otherwise guttersnipe—Me. Mennesson and his clerks—La Fontaine-Eau-Claire.