“I must look carefully into this matter”—these words were not said by my father by reason of any belief he had in the truth of Mocquet’s tale about his nightmare; and even the fact of the nightmare being admitted by him, he gave no credence to the idea that it was Mother Durand who had nightmared the keeper. Far from it; but my father was not ignorant of the superstitions of the people, and he knew that belief in spells was still widespread among the peasantry in the country districts. He had heard of terrible acts of revenge carried out by the victims on some man or woman who they thought had bewitched them, in the belief that the charm would thus be broken; and Mocquet, while he stood denouncing Mother Durand to my father, had had such an accent of menace in his voice, and had given such a grip to his gun, that my father thought it wise to appear to agree with everything he said, in order to gain his confidence and so prevent him doing anything without first consulting him.
So, thinking that he had so far gained an influence over Mocquet, my father ventured to say:
“But before you make her pay for it, my good Mocquet, you ought to be quite sure that no one can cure you of your nightmare.”
“No one can cure me, General,” replied Mocquet in a tone of conviction.
“How! No one able to cure you?”
“No one; I have tried the impossible.”
“And how did you try?”
“First of all, I drank a large bowl of hot wine before going to bed.”