“This is it; he could turn aside the ordinary bullets, but he had no power over the youngster’s, which was marked with a cross; it hit him in the shoulder, I saw him make a movement as if to try and bite himself.”
“But,” I broke in, astonished at the silence and amazement which had fallen on the keepers, “if my bullet hit him in the shoulder, why did it not kill him?”
“Because it was made neither of gold nor of silver, my dear boy; and because no bullets but those that are made of gold or silver can pierce the skin of the devil, or kill those who have made a compact with him.”
“But, Mocquet,” said the keepers, shuddering, “do you really think … ?”
“Think? Yes, I do! I could swear that we have had to do this morning with Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf.”
The huntsman and keepers looked at one another; two or three of them made the sign of the cross; and they all appeared to share Mocquet’s opinion, and to know quite well what he meant by Thibault’s wolf. I, alone, knew nothing about it, and therefore asked impatiently, “What is this wolf, and who is this Thibault, the sabot-maker?”
Mocquet hesitated before replying, then, “Ah! to be sure!” he exclaimed, “the General told me that I might let you know about it when you were fifteen. You are that age now, are you not?”
“I am sixteen,” I replied with some pride.
“Well, then, my dear Monsieur Alexandre, Thibault, the sabot-maker’s wolf, is the devil. You were asking me last night for a tale, were you not?”
“Yes.”