Saint Hibaut, situated in a wild country, surrounded by lonely heaths and deep ravines, and water-courses whose sides are covered by almost impenetrable thickets, was at the time I speak of, that is to say, when I was eighteen years of age, the property of Monsieur de Cheribalde, the most intrepid, determined and ardent sportsman, who ever winded a horn, wore a huntsman's knife, or whistled a dog.
Distant very nearly twenty miles from any human habitation, it was at times, the favourite rendezvous, the head-quarters of a great number of chevreuil, boar and other denizens of the forest. In winter, when the snow covered the earth for several weeks, the famished and furious wolves assembled in the neighbourhood in packs, carrying off in the broad daylight everything they could lay their teeth on; sheep and shepherd, dogs and huntsman, horse and horseman, bones, hair, and skins half-tanned, old hats and shoes—even the corrupt bodies of the dead were torn from their resting-places, and eaten by these horrid animals.
On moonlight nights, these brutes would come fearlessly up to the very walls of the farm, dancing their sarabandes in the snow, howling like so many devils, shrieking and showing their long white teeth, and demanding in unmistakable terms something or somebody to devour; their yells, their cries of rage, of victory, and of love, intermingled with the funereal song of the screech-owl, and the lugubrious melodies which the current from the blast without caused in the large open chimneys,—was the concert, which from December to April lulled the inmates of St. Hibaut to sleep; music that would I doubt not have reduced even the formidable proportions of the inimitable Lablache, and made Mario sing out of tune.
But these were the good old times, the good old times! Well do I remember, when the shadows of those winter evenings lengthened, when nightfall came, and when at last the moon arose, bringing out in light and shade every object within the court-yard, and at some distance from the house, then it was that Monsieur de Cheribalde went his rounds. I see him in my mind's eye now, with his gun on his shoulder, followed by his five enormous bloodhounds strong and fierce as lions, and Navarre, surnamed the Four-Pounder, who walked a few paces to the right and left, opening his large saucer eyes, poking and squinting into every bush and corner.
Navarre, for forty years the head gamekeeper of the domain, was his master's right hand, his alter ego. He had never in his whole life been beyond his woods,—had never seen the church-steeple of a great town. To him, the dark belt of firs that skirted the horizon, was the limit of the world; and when told that the sun never set, and that when it sank behind the mountains, it was only continuing its course, to beam bright in other skies and on other lands, and to ripen other harvests,—Navarre smiled, and did not believe a word. Happy Navarre! what did it signify to him what was done, or what happened behind those hills? He was thin and dry as a match, and tall as a Norwegian spruce, with a face covered with hair; he smoked, and tossed off glass after glass of brandy, like a Dutchman. In addition to these peculiarities, Navarre was lame of the right leg, a boar having one day kindly applied his tusky lancet to his thigh, and gored him seriously, before, hand to hand, he managed to finish him with his hunting-knife.
At the first glance, Navarre's aspect appeared strange and forbidding, and savage as the locality in which he lived. The fact was, that, like Robinson Crusoe, he was frequently arrayed in a suit of skins of which he had been the architect, on a fantastic pattern, that his own queer imagination had created.
On great occasions the veteran keeper donned a helmet, or a gray three-cornered hat, of so ridiculous a shape—so royally absurd—that for my life, when he was thus attired, I could not, even in the presence of his master, refrain from laughter; then he would tell you, with a gravity it was impossible to disturb, that it had taken him fifteen days, eight skins of wild cats, and twelve squirrel's tails, to achieve this happy chef-d'œuvre of the tailoring art. But I once said to him, "My good Navarre, in the name of heaven tell me, from what Japanese manuscript did you fish out that odious hat? Why, with such a shed, you might very well be mistaken for Chin-ko-fi-ku-o, high-priest of the temple of Twi. Do give me the address of your hatter, my dear friend." Navarre, furious, gave no reply.
But the time really to admire him—to see the head gamekeeper in all his splendour—was in winter, in a hard frost, when, covered with skins and motionless, he lay in ambush in a black ravine, waiting for a boar. Oh! then, for certain, the sight of him was anything but encouraging; for he looked like some unknown animal, some variety of the species Bonassus, a crocodile on end, a crumpled-up elephant, or a great bear on the watch. And when he loaded his rifle—a sort of culverin or wall-piece, which no one but himself knew how to manage—gracious powers! he was something to see. His first movement was to seize the gigantic weapon in the middle, as a policeman would fasten upon a favourite thief; and then he set himself to blow into the barrel with such fury, that had there been an ounce of wadding left, the blast would have blown it all through the enormous touch-hole. Being well assured after this that neither an adder nor a slow-worm had taken up his domicile within the barrel, he began to load. One charge—two charges—then a third, "as a compliment," and after this, a fourth, "for good luck." On this infernal charge—imperial, as he called it—this Vesuvius, this volcano of saltpetre, he threw half-a-dozen balls, or, if he was out of them, a handful of nails; and then he rammed—rammed—rammed away, like a pavior.
My hair stood on end, and every limb trembled when he fired it off—holy St. Francis!—the very forest bent, and coughed, and sighed; and it made as much flame, smoke, noise, and carnage, as a battery of horse artillery. One might have heard it all over Burgundy, or Provence for what I know; and hence, no doubt, his sobriquet of "the Four-Pounder." I always thought his shoulder must be made of heart of oak. On one occasion he did me the incomparable favour of loading my gun in this fashion, but luckily for me, informed me of this piece of civility before we started; and greatly was he chagrined when I declined to fire it. In the common occurrences of life, Navarre was a right good fellow; he had great good sense, could take a joke, was simple and modest in his manners, and very kind-hearted and retiring. But once in the forest, the dogs uncoupled, and the business of the chase commenced, he bounded to the front; his eyes flashed, his nostrils dilated, he took a deep breath, listened, and snuffed the air; he limped no longer; and as his courage was unequalled, and his knowledge of wood-craft profound, the proudest of every rank were content to follow where he led.