We will, therefore, imagine some of the party enjoying themselves after this fashion; when suddenly the calves are heard to rise, to bellow and groan, strain at the ropes with which they are fastened, and endeavour to escape; every cigar is at once extinguished, the comic changes to the serious—the wolves are on the scent. A few minutes more, and black spots are seen dotted about here and there on the snow; these increase in number and approach,—they are the wolves that observe and listen; the frantic terror of the calves is redoubled; the black spots become larger, they advance still nearer, and at length the animals may clearly be distinguished. The wolves imagine the calves have come astray. What a charming thing if they could carry them off to the dark ravines they inhabit! The great square hut, silent as Harpocrates, and the smell of man, make them hesitate; but a hunger of many days (and we know that man, the image of his Maker, will eat man, his fellow, in his extremity) and the smell of blood prevail and overcome their fears. Four or five wolves rush forward, and endeavour to remove the calves; the attempt is vain, the ropes are strong, and so are the posts to which the animals are fastened: unable, therefore, to succeed, and stretched across their dying victims, they plunge their ravenous jaws into the palpitating flesh, forget their alarm in so delicious a supper, and eat and drink to their heart's content. The rest of the pack thus encouraged, and afraid of being too late, now advance at a gallop to share in the repast.
It is then, and amid the yells, the disputes, and the bloody encounters occasioned by a division of the spoil, that the sportsmen open their fire. The first volley puts the wolves to flight, and they retire to a short distance. But again all is silent, they soon return to the carcases they cannot make up their minds to desert; other wolves also, that have been in the rear, attracted by the cries and smell of their wounded companions, and the blood of the calves, arrive and take part in the strife, so that during several hours the forest echoes with repeated volleys. At length the calves are fairly eaten up, when the fortunate survivors of the fray, gorged and satiated, take to flight, and disappear like a band of black demons into the recesses of the forest. It is then the sportsmen leave their hut, stretch their limbs, count the dead, dispatch their wounded enemies, and, clothed in thick fur cloaks, sit as if at the bivouac round a large fire, passing the remaining hours of the night in emptying more bottles, excavating more pies, drinking more punch, and telling better stories than those which I have had the pleasure of laying before the reader.
The morning has scarcely dawned and the party is on the road home, when a crowd of peasants arrive with their dogs, who, following the bloody traces of the wolves in the snow, dispatch those which, though wounded, have been able to leave the spot—for the sight of a dead wolf is to a Morvinian as delightful as the possession of one is profitable. Having killed his ferocious enemy, the peasant cuts off his head and his four feet, which he fastens crosswise at the end of his staff; then arraying himself in his best and most showy clothes, his hat ornamented with flowers and ribbons streaming in the breeze, like those in the cap of an English recruit, he is off, the left foot foremost, to the mayor of his parish to receive the reward offered by the government. But his road to his worship is anything but direct; he performs what he terms the grand tour, visits every village in his way, makes his bow to the women, calls at the sheep-farms and the chateâux, showing, with no little pride and exultation, his wolf's head, and receives at each some acknowledgment for the service he has rendered the community,—money, a dozen of eggs, a pound of lard, a bit of pork, bread, flour, flax, or salt, &c. He who kills the wolf, and carries the spoils as a trophy in this manner, is accompanied by the musician of the neighbourhood, who marches before him blowing his bagpipe with the force of an ox; behind him is one of the strongest men of the village, with a large bag on each shoulder, who carries the presents, and imitates the cry and yells of a wolf when the piper is tired. It will not therefore be considered astonishing if it is always with renewed pleasure that a peasant of Le Morvan kills a wolf; and though one becomes tired, blazé with almost everything in this mortal world, it is not the case when a gallant fellow is seen entering a village carrying the head of this hideous monster on his pole. This trophy, with tongue distended and mouth kept wide open by a piece of wood to show his long yellow teeth, frightens all the little children that see it.
There are many other methods of taking the wolf, with a hook, a net, with tame she-wolves à la loge, the poacher's method, in pits, and in a washing-tub by the side of a pond, &c. But a description of these several modes would occupy too much space. I cannot, however, before taking a final leave of this subject, resist the temptation to relate one last and most fearful incident—a frightful illustration of the horrors to which a country infested by this animal is liable. It happened during my sojourn at St. Hibaut, at a farm in that neighbourhood.
It was in the month of February, the winter was exceedingly severe, and three feet of snow still covered the mountains; all communication between the villages had ceased, and bands of hungry wolves besieged the farms in the heart of the woods.
The forest of La Madeleine, particularly full of ravines and dark thickets, small hamlets, and solitary houses, was overrun with these insatiable and remorseless brutes. Travellers had been devoured in the passes of La Goulotte, and mangled and torn in the ravines of Lingou. No one dared venture into the country when night approached.
The farm of which I am about to speak stands just on the borders of the forest of La Madeleine, in the midst of pastures and patches of furze; it was full of cattle and sheep, and by the time the stars were brilliantly illuminating the dark arch of heaven, was frequently surrounded by troops of wolves, scratching under the walls, and loudly demanding the trifling alms of a horse, an ox, or a man. It so happened that at this time one of the farmer's colts died, and he determined, if possible, to use it as a bait, which would provide him the opportunity of destroying some of his nocturnal visitors.
For this purpose he placed the dead body in the middle of his court-yard, and having fastened weights to its neck and legs, to prevent the wolves from dragging it away, he set the principal gate open, but so arranged with cords and pulleys that it could be closed at any required moment. Night came on; the house was shut up, the candles extinguished, the stables barricaded, the dogs brought in-doors and muzzled to prevent them from barking, and, in the bright starlight, on some clean straw, the better to attract attention, lay the dead body of the colt—the gate, as we have said, being open. All was ready, all within on the watch, when about ten o'clock the wolves were heard in the distance; they approached, smelt, looked, listened, grumbled, and distrusting the open gate, paused; not one would enter. Profound was the silence and excitement in the house. Hunger at last overcame prudence and mistrust. Their savage cries were renewed; they became more and more impatient and exasperated,—how was it possible to resist a piece of young horseflesh? The most forward, probably the captain of the band, could hold out no longer, and to show his fellows he was worthy to be their leader, he advanced alone, passed the Rubicon, went up to the colt, tore away a large piece of his chest, and, proud of his achievement, set off at speed with his booty between his teeth. The other wolves, seeing him escape in safety, regained their confidence, and one, two, three, six, eight wolves were soon gathered round the animal, but, though eating as fast as they could, they remained with ears erect, and each eye still on the gate.
Eight wolves! The farmer thought it a respectable number, and whistled, when the four men at the ropes hauling instantly, the large folding-gates rolled to, and closed in the stillness with the noise of thunder,—the wolves were prisoners. Startled and terrified at finding themselves caught, they at once deserted the small remains of the colt, creeping about in all directions in search of some outlet by which they might escape, or some hole to hide in, while the farmer, having secured them, sent his household to bed, putting off their destruction till sunrise.