A SOLITAIRE IN THE FOREST OF BEARFIELD. 23T 
years the affection for their dogs carried it in their hearts over 
the love of glory, and the thirst of combats. This forbearance, 
however, must have its limit ; chance has it. 
On the 25th of October, 1846, the huntsman of the Marquis de 
I’Aigle discovered the passage of a sow with her pigs in the forest 
of Bearfield, and received orders to turn her out. But the sow 
and all her pigs had decamped from the forest the night before. 
The next day, at nine in the morning, we met, the huntsman and 
myself, in a green avenue. Well,'’ I asked him, ‘‘have you had 
good luck ?” “ Bad, bad.” The sow ?” Gone.” ISTo 
wolves?” ‘'No more than under my hand.” “No hunt, then?” 
“ None.” Hold, hold, thought I, commenting upon this lugubri- 
ous physiognomy and accent of despair, what if by chance it 
should turn out a solitaire. Precisely — here he comes from Petit 
Chapitre, and crosses the plain to enter the Leblond woods ; it is 
he, the solitaire had one toe longer than the other, and there 
could be no mistake about his identity. As I spoke my eyes were 
fixed upon a fresh track of last night, as big as that of a heifer, 
and each of my hands sought, mechanically, its respective pocket, 
to assure myself well that I had not left my balls at home. Old 
Louis now discerned the traces of this monster encamped in the 
Leblond woods. “ Will that fellow show us any thing of a 
chase ?” said I to Louis, as the dogs were uncoupled.- Insidious 
question ! I knew well that a beast of that size does not allow 
himself to be chased. “ Damn it, yes,” replied Louis — “ perhaps 
a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes.” “You surprise me, 
.... and you are not on horseback ?” “ Perfectly useless for 
our hunt to-day.” 
The brave fellow was at this moment handling the pieces of a 
hunting apparatus, that seemed to bear some analogy of form and 
destination with a surgeon’s case, and seemed too much absorbed 
with his curved needles to reply to me at length. 
The forty- five dogs of the pack — English dogs — are set on at 
once. The beast leaves cover without waiting to be urged, con- 
trary to the habits of the species. It crosses the Yiguereux meadow 
with a train of forty-five English dogs. It is the hurricane, black, 
threatening, terrible, but mute. 
