CHAPTER IX

Mocquet's nightmare--His pipe--Mother Durand--Les bêtes _fausses_ et le _pierge_--M. Collard--My father's remedy--Radical cure of Mocquet.

Mocquet had the nightmare.

Do you know what a nightmare is? I think you must have seen that huge-eyed monster, seated on the chest of a panting and sleeping man.

I do not know how to paint it in words, but I have seen it, even as you have.

Mocquet's nightmare was no monkey with big eyes, or fantastic monster of Hugo's imagination reproduced by the brush of Delacroix, by the pencil of Boulanger, or by the chisel of Feuchères; none of these, it was a little old woman, who lived in the village of Haramont, about a quarter of a league from our château des Fossés, whom Mocquet considered in the light of his personal enemy.

One morning very early Mocquet, came into my father's room before he was up and stood by the bedside.

"Well, Mocquet, what is the matter?" asked my father. "Why that melancholy face?"

"General, I have been _nightmared_," replied Mocquet solemnly. Mocquet, all unconsciously, had enriched the language with an active verb.

"Oh! you have been _nightmared_--have you?" exclaimed my father, as he raised himself on one elbow.

"Yes, General."

And Mocquet drew his cutty-pipe out of his mouth, a thing he rarely did, and only under very serious provocation.

Now this pipe was more than an accessary to Mocquet--it was an integral part of the man.

No one had ever seen Mocquet without his pipe. If, by chance, it was out of his mouth, he held it in his hand.

This pipe, intended to accompany Mocquet into the midst of the thickest forests, presented the least possible surface that could encounter destruction by contact with any solid body.

Now the destruction of a well seasoned cutty-pipe would, in Mocquet's eyes, mean a loss that only the work of years could repair.

The stem of this pipe of Mocquet's never projected more than half an inch.

This habit of never being without his pipe had filed a hollow between Mocquet's incisors and canine teeth: it had also led to another habit, that of speaking through his shut teeth, which gave a peculiarly impressive character to all he said; for nothing prevented his teeth from keeping tight shut.

"How long have you been _nightmared_, my poor Mocquet?" my father asked.

"For a whole week, General."

"By whom?"

"Oh! I know well enough who it is," he replied, shutting his teeth tighter than ever.

"Indeed, may I know who it is?"

"That old witch, mother Durand, General!"

"Mother Durand of Haramont?"

"Yes, hard enough."

"The deuce, Mocquet--we must look into this!"

"I'll see to it too; she shall pay me for this, the old mole!"

_The old mole_ was an expression of hatred which Mocquet had borrowed from Pierre, who, having no greater enemies than moles, dubbed all he detested by that name.

"We must look into this, Mocquet," my father had said; not that he believed in Mocquet's nightmare, not even that, admitting the existence of the nightmare, he believed it was mother Durand who had _nightmared_ his guardsman. Nothing of the kind; but my father knew the superstitious nature of our peasants; he knew that a belief in _spells_ was still largely prevalent in the countryside. He had heard some terrible tales of vengeance taken by folk who thought themselves bewitched, who had sought to break the spell by killing the person or persons who had _bewitched_ them. And when Mocquet denounced mother Durand to my father, there was such a threatening accent in his voice, and he had pressed the butt of his rifle with so much intention, that my father deemed it wise policy to appear to chime in with Mocquet's opinion in order to keep a hold on him, so that he should not do anything before first consulting him.

"But before punishing her, my good Mocquet," my father said to him, "we must do our best to see if we cannot cure you of your nightmare."

"You cannot, General."

"Why not?"

"No, I have done everything possible."

"What have you done?"

"First I drank a large bowl of warm wine before going to bed."

"Who recommended you to do that? Was it M. Lécosse?"

M. Lécosse was the leading doctor in Villers-Cotterets.

"M. Lécosse?" said Mocquet with scorn. "He? what does he know about spells? Goodness! No, it wasn't M. Lécosse."

"Who was it, then?"

"The shepherd at Longpré."

"A whole bowl of hot wine, you idiot! You would be dead drunk after you had taken it!"

"The shepherd drank half."

"Well, I understand the prescription; and the bowl of warm wine did no good?"

"General, she stamped on my chest all night, just as though I had taken absolutely nothing."

"And what did you do next?"

"I did what I always do when I want to catch a _false_ beast (_une bête fausse._)"

Mocquet had a vocabulary peculiar to himself. He could never be made to say a fallow deer (_une bête fauve._) Each time my father said _une bête fauve_ Mocquet took him up.

"Yes, General, a _false_ beast--for, General, with all respect, you are wrong."

"How am I wrong?"

"It is not a fallow deer I mean, but a false beast."

"Why?"

"Because a fallow deer does not express what I mean."

"And what do you mean by a false beast?"

"I mean a beast that only walks by night, one that is deceitful--in short, a _false_ beast."

It was such a logical definition that there was nothing further to be said; so my father did not answer, and Mocquet triumphantly continued to call fallow deer false beasts.

So to my father's question, "What did you do next?" Mocquet replied, "I did what I always do when I want to catch a false beast."

"What is that, Mocquet?"

"I set a trap _(piège)._"

Mocquet always pronounced _piège pierge._

"You set a trap to catch mother Durand?"

Mocquet did not like to have his words said differently from his own pronunciation. He replied: "I set a _pierge_ for mother Durand."

"And where did you put it? At your door?"

"At my door? Rather not! Do you think the old witch would go through my door? She would enter my bedroom in some unheard-of way."

"By the chimney, perhaps?"

"There isn't one. I never saw her until I felt her stamping on my chest: click, clack, click, clack!"

"Well, where did you put the snare?"

"The _pierge?_ I put it on my stomach, to be sure."

"What sort of a snare did you use?"

"Oh! a famous _pierge_, with an iron chain, which I passed round my wrist. It weighed about ten pounds. Oh! yes, ten or twelve pounds, at least."

"And that night----?"

"Oh! She was much worse that night. She generally kneads my chest with her goloshes, but that night she had clogs on."

"And did she come like that?"

"Every living night the good Lord made. I get so thin with it that I am becoming quite consumptive: but this morning I have made up my mind."

"What have you decided to do, Mocquet?"

"I have made up my mind to give her the contents of my gun."

"That is a wise decision. When will you put it into execution?"

"Oh, either to-night or to-morrow, General."

"That's a nuisance, for I was just going to send you to Villers-Hellon."

"Oh, that doesn't matter, General. Is what I have to do urgent?"

"Very urgent."

"Well, I can go to Villers-Hellon,--it is only four leagues,--and be back by night. That will make eight leagues in the day. We have put many more behind us in hunting, General."

"True enough, Mocquet. I will give you a letter for M. Collard, and then you will set off."

"Yes, I will start at once, General."

My father got up and wrote to M. Collard. We will explain later who that gentleman was; in the meantime we will merely mention that he was one of my father's best friends.

The letter was as follows:--

"MY DEAR COLLARD,--I send herewith my idiot of a guardsman, whom you know. He fancies an old woman bewitches him every night, and, to put an end to his vampire, he proposes, quite nonchalantly, to kill her. But as the law looks askance on such rough-and-ready methods of cure for nightmare, I send him to you on a trivial pretext. Send him to Danré de Youty, who, on some other pretext, must send him to Dulauloy, who--with or without a pretext--can send him to the devil if he wishes.

"In short, his tour must be made to last a fortnight. During that time we shall have moved to Antilly, and then, as he will be no longer in the neighbourhood of Haramont, and as his nightmare will probably disappear during his journey, mother Durand may be able to sleep in peace--I should not advise her to do this while Mocquet lives in the district.

"He brings you a dozen snipe and a hare which we shot yesterday when hunting in the marsh of Walue.

"A thousand tender messages to your lovely Herminie, and a thousand kisses to your dear little Caroline.--Your friend, "ALEX. DUMAS.

"_P.S._--"We received yesterday news of your goddaughter Aimée, who is very well; as for Berlick, he grows an inch a month, and runs always on the tips of his toes,--his shoes make no difference."

Mocquet left an hour after the letter was written, and three weeks sped by before he rejoined us at Antilly.

"Well?" asked my father, seeing him look cheerful and the picture of health--"Well! what about mother Durand?"

"Why, General! the old mole has left me. It looks as though she had no power in this district."

And now the reader has the right to ask for an explanation of my father's postscript, and to be told who was this Berlick who grew an inch a month and who ran on tiptoe in spite of his shoes.