The piqueurs lead the dogs before the high altar, the mass of St. Hubert is said, and, as the priests lift the host on high, suddenly there is a carillon of bells, hunting-horns sound the fanfare of St. Hubert, the crowd rustles to its feet. Out of the church file the priests in gorgeous vestments and the red-robed acolytes bearing the blest bread of St. Hubert. The oldest priest crumbles the bread for the dogs, sprinkles holy water over the quivering muzzles. There is another peal of bells, the horns sound gaily, the hunting folk spring to saddle, the guests who are not to hunt climb into their traps and automobiles, the piqueurs crack the long lashes of their dog whips, the hounds strain at their leashes, and the whole procession wends its way merrily toward the place chosen for the meet,—while the outsider privileged to witness the show rubs his eyes and hurries off to find a calendar, that he may see whether perchance this is the year of grace 1905 or an earlier and more ceremonious time.
The rendezvous for the meet is at some carrefour or crossroads, where an old stone cross with ancient inscription usually marks a circular opening in the forest, and there one may see an amusing sight on any morning when the hounds are out. Eight o'clock is the rallying hour, and before that hour, though shreds of night still cling to the trees and blur the forest roads, the Duchess is on hand with the party from Bonnelles, to greet her guests.
Up out of the mist they come, gay parties from the neighbouring châteaux, officers from the nearest garrisons, reinforcements from Paris. Some are in hunting costume, some are driving smart traps, many spin up to the rendezvous in automobiles and the snorting and puffing of their machines mixes oddly with the neighing of horses and the restless whining of the hounds. The red coats of the huntsmen, the bright colours of the officers' uniforms, the chic costumes of the women, lend an aspect of gaiety to the sombre forest setting with its wreathing grey mist, and there is a chatter of voices, a ripple of laughter.
The stag which has been tracked and located before the place for the meet was appointed is reported still close at hand, and the master of the hunt gives the word. The hounds are unleashed and sent forward, while at the carrefour, the noise dies down to a murmur or an expectant hush.
Then there is a crash in the thicket, the hounds give tongue, high, sweet, and clear on the crisp autumn air the horns sound the "Stag in view," and away goes the hunt, a glinting line of colour through the dull November woods. The dogs run close, the hunters ride hard, and at their head is the little Duchess, reckless, excited, joying in the sport, true daughter of a hunting house.
It is easy to understand the passion for the chase, when one rides in the wake of the hounds through the haunted old forest of the Druids while the horns are playing the ancient hunting-airs of France and the hounds' sonorous voices ring full and sweet and sad—for there is ever a melancholy in the music when a pack of St. Huberts is in full cry.
The horses stretch themselves to the chase, the tingling morning air is full of wood scents, the sun is scattering the mist.
Hola! Hola! Madame la Duchesse hunts the stag!
The trembling hares and birds seek the thick covert, but they are safe. No presidential battue this, but royal sport. Madame la Duchesse hunts the stag in the ancient forest of kings.