“Ah, mon Dieu!  I was forgetting a poor hack of mine in the stable.  It’s a small matter.  Still, you might be reprimanded for omitting it; and as I see that you are a worthy fellow I should be sorry to mislead you.  Come with me and see it; it won’t take us a moment.”

The notary followed Mauprat unsuspectingly.  Just as they were about to enter the stable together, Mauprat, who was leading the way, told him to put in his head only.  The notary, anxious to show great consideration in the performance of his duties, and not to pry into things too closely, did as he was told.  Then Mauprat suddenly pushed the door to and squeezed his neck so violently between it and the wall that the wretched man could not breathe.  Deeming him sufficiently punished, Tristan opened the door again, and, asking pardon for his carelessness, with great civility offered the man his arm to take him back to dinner.  This the notary did not consider it wise to refuse; but as soon as he re-entered the room where his colleagues were, he threw himself into a chair, and pointing to his livid face and mangled neck, demanded justice for the trap into which he had just been led.  It was then that my grandfather, revelling in his rascally wit, went through a comedy scene of sublime audacity.  He gravely reproached the notary with accusing him unjustly, and always addressing him kindly and with studied politeness, called the others to bear witness to his conduct, begging them to make allowances if his precarious position had forced him to give them such a poor reception, all the while doing the honours of the table in splendid style.  The poor notary did not dare to press the matter and was compelled to dine, although half dead.  His companions were so completely duped by Mauprat’s assurance that they ate and drank merrily, treating the notary as a lunatic and a boor.  They left Roche-Mauprat all drunk, singing the praises of their host, and laughing at the notary, who fell down dead upon the threshold of his house on dismounting from his horse.

The eight sons, the pride and strength of old Mauprat, all resembled him in physical vigour, brutality of manners, and, to some extent, in craftiness and jesting ill-nature.  The truth is they were veritable brutes, capable of any evil, and completely dead to any noble thought or generous sentiment.  Nevertheless, they were endowed with a sort of reckless, dashing courage which now and then seemed to have in it an element of grandeur.  But it is time that I told you about myself, and gave you some idea of the development of my character in the thick of this filthy mire into which it had pleased God to plunge me, on leaving my cradle.