Then he replaced on the saddle the two bodies, one upon the other, and rode away.
He returned to the chateau, laughing and crying, like Gargantua at the birth of Pantagruel, uttering shouts of triumph, and boisterous with joy as he related the death of the beast, and grieving and tearing his beard in telling of that of his brother.
And often, later, when he talked again of that day, he would say, with tears in his eyes: “If only poor Jean could have seen me strangle the beast, he would have died content, that I am sure!”
The widow of my ancestor inspired her orphan son with that horror of the chase which has transmitted itself from father to son as far down as myself.
The Marquis d’Arville was silent. Some one asked:
“That story is a legend, isn’t it?”
And the story teller answered:
“I swear to you that it is true from beginning to end.”
Then a lady declared, in a little, soft voice
“All the same, it is fine to have passions like that.”