68 A MONTH IN THE FOEESTS OF FRANCE. 



he is very likely to make a niglit of it under the 

 greenwood tree. There is no ashing your way. 



The fixture for this my first attack on wolves was 

 at a considerable distance from the Chateau Sauvages; 

 so our horses (none of which I had yet seen) had been 

 sent or ridden on, and the clever white mare came to 

 the door in the open shooting-carriage to take mine 

 host, Jules d'Anchald, and myself. 



As soon as we were in the carriage, Jules began 

 instructing me on the points of chase played on the 

 huge French-horn, and, to my utter astonishment, I 

 recognised, in the air appointed for the death of a wild- 

 boar, a pretty little song which a young lady used to 

 sing to me in years gone by. He played a variety 

 of pieces of music, every animal of chase having 

 a separate air assigned him ; and it at once occurred 

 to me that, as a French master of hounds would on 

 no account whatever take a huntsman who was not 

 a musician, he would have to seek a servant rather 

 at the opera than in the kennel, or for any superior 

 knowledge the man might have of the science of 

 woodcraft, or the interests of the establishment 

 entrusted to his care. I cast an eye at the little 

 straight horn in my belt, and thought how much 

 lighter that was to carry, and how much more ser- 

 viceably and quickly I could call my hounds with it. 



