“I looked at her, bewildered. Then I took
her hand in mine, and tears came to my eyes.
I wept for her lost youth. For I did not know
this fat lady.
“She was also excited, and stammered:
“’I am greatly changed, am I not?
What can you expect—everything has its
time! You see, I have become a mother, nothing
but a good mother. Farewell to the rest, that
is over. Oh! I never expected you to recognize
me if we met. You, too, have changed. It
took me quite a while to be sure that I was not mistaken.
Your hair is all white. Just think! Twelve
years ago! Twelve years! My oldest girl
is already ten.’
“I looked at the child. And I recognized
in her something of her mother’s old charm,
but something as yet unformed, something which promised
for the future. And life seemed to me as swift
as a passing train.
“We had reached. Maisons-Laffitte.
I kissed my old friend’s hand. I had found
nothing utter but the most commonplace remarks.
I was too much upset to talk.
“At night, alone, at home, I stood in front
of the mirror for a long time, a very long time.
And I finally remembered what I had been, finally
saw in my mind’s eye my brown mustache, my black
hair and the youthful expression of my face.
Now I was old. Farewell!”
This is what the old Marquis d’Arville told
us after St. Hubert’s dinner at the house of
the Baron des Ravels.
We had killed a stag that day. The marquis was
the only one of the guests who had not taken part
in this chase. He never hunted.
During that long repast we had talked about hardly
anything but the slaughter of animals. The ladies
themselves were interested in bloody and exaggerated
tales, and the orators imitated the attacks and the
combats of men against beasts, raised their arms,
romanced in a thundering voice.
M. d Arville talked well, in a certain flowery, high-sounding,
but effective style. He must have told this story
frequently, for he told it fluently, never hesitating
for words, choosing them with skill to make his description
vivid.
Gentlemen, I have never hunted, neither did my father,
nor my grandfather, nor my great-grandfather.
This last was the son of a man who hunted more than
all of you put together. He died in 1764.
I will tell you the story of his death.
His name was Jean. He was married, father of
that child who became my great-grandfather, and he
lived with his younger brother, Francois d’Arville,
in our castle in Lorraine, in the midst of the forest.
Francois d’Arville had remained a bachelor for
love of the chase.
They both hunted from one end of the year to the other,
without stopping and seemingly without fatigue.
They loved only hunting, understood nothing else,
talked only of that, lived only for that.
They had at heart that one passion, which was terrible
and inexorable. It consumed them, had completely
absorbed them, leaving room for no other thought.
