“He carried off one of M. Destournelles’ sheep last night, I have traced him to the Tillet woods.”
“And what then?”
“Why then, I am certain to see him again tonight, and shall find out where his lair is, and tomorrow morning we’ll finish his business for him.”
“Oh, this is luck!”
“Only, we must first ask leave. …”
“Of whom, Mocquet?”
“Leave of Madame.”
“All right, come in, then, we will ask her at once.”
My mother had been watching us through the window; she suspected that some plot was hatching between us.
“I have no patience with you, Mocquet,” she said, as we went in, “you have no sense or discretion.”
“In what way, Madame?” asked Mocquet.
“To go exciting him in the way you do; he thinks too much of sport as it is.”
“Nay, Madame, it is with him, as with dogs of breed; his father was a sportsman, he is a sportsman, and his son will be a sportsman after him; you must make up your mind to that.”
“And supposing some harm should come to him?”