The two first bullets were seen to cross one another, and ran along the ground, sending up spurts of snow; the wolf had escaped them both, but he had no doubt been struck down by the others; that the two keepers who had just fired should miss their aim, was an unheard of thing. I had seen Moynat kill seventeen snipe one after the other; I had seen Mildet cut a squirrel in two as he was jumping from tree to tree.
The keepers went into the forest after the wolf; we looked anxiously towards the spot where they had disappeared. We saw them reappear, dejected, and shaking their heads.
“Well?” cried Mocquet interrogatively.
“Bah!” answered Mildet, with an impatient movement of his arm, “he’s at Taille-Fontaine by this time.”
“At Taille-Fontaine!” exclaimed Mocquet, completely taken aback. “What! the fools have gone and missed him, then!”
“Well, what of that? you missed him yourself, did you not?”
Mocquet shook his head.
“Well, well, there’s some devilry about this,” he said. “That I should miss him was surprising, but it was perhaps possible; but that Moynat should have shot twice and missed him is not possible, no, I say, no.”
“Nevertheless, so it is, my good Mocquet.”
“Besides, you, you hit him,” he said to me.
“I! … are you sure?”
“We others may well be ashamed to say it. But as sure as my name is Mocquet, you hit the wolf.”