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"Do not forget the time you stole the ducks of my uncle," cried the Baron, shaking a clenched fist at the old man, "or the morning " But his words were lost on Le Bour, who had disappeared in the hedge. By eleven-thirty we had killed some two dozen birds and three hares; and as we were now stricken with "the appetite of the wolf," we turned back to the château for breakfast.
As he drew nearer I saw that his gun swung loosely in his hand and was at full cock, its muzzle wavering unpleasantly over us as he strode on. His mean old eyes glittered with rage, his jaw trembled under a string of oaths. His manner was that of a sullen bull about to charge. There was no mistaking his identity it was Le Bour.
I found it was called by the people of the place the Tour des Quatre Sergents, though I know not what connection it has with the touching history of the four young sergeants of the garrison of La Rochelle, who were arrested in 1821 as conspirators against the Government of the Bour- bons, and executed, amid general indignation, in Paris in the following year.
The next moment they dismounted, left their wheels on the path, and came slowly across the desert of wire-grass toward us. "Diable!" muttered Tanrade, under his breath, and instantly our minds reverted to Le Bour. The two officials of the law were before us.
I appoint you witness, Monsieur le Curé, the fellow has no permit." And we swelled the merriment with a forced sputter of ridicule. "Come, my friends, we shall leave this imbecile to himself," laughed the Baron. Le Bour sprang past him and confronted us. "Eh ben, my fine gentlemen," he snarled, "you'll not get away so easily. I demand, in the name of the law, your hunting permits. Come, allons!
Bourtry, or Bour tree. Although one of our commonest native trees, the Elder must rank amongst the most ornamental if only for its large compound cymes of white or yellowish-white flowers, and ample bunches of shining black berries. S. RACEMOSA. Scarlet-berried Elder. South Europe and Siberia, 1596.
"Eh bien! my dear friends," he called back to the others as we reached a cross-road, "we shall begin shooting here. Half of you to the right half to the left!" "What is the name of your farmer?" I inquired, as we spread out into two slowly moving companies. "Le Bour," returned the Baron grimly as the breech of his gun snapped shut.
The Vicomte stopped, with a gesture of surprise. "Ah! Sapristi! You do not know?" he exclaimed. "You do not know that Babette Deslys is Le Bour's daughter? That the Baron's son ran away with her and a hundred thousand francs? That the hundred thousand francs belonged to Le Bour? Sapristi! You did not know that?"
Jeanne was alarmed, but the baron consoled her, saying: "Let him alone; the boy is twenty years old." One morning, however, an old man, poorly dressed, inquired in German-French for "Madame la Vicomtesse," and after many ceremonious bows, he drew from his pocket a dilapidated pocketbook, saying: "Che un betit bapier bour fous," and unfolding as he handed it to her a piece of greasy paper.
A procès-verbal meant publicity; naturally the Vicomtesse would know. It might even reach the adorable ears of Mademoiselle Rosalie, of the corps de ballet, who imagined the Vicomte safe with his family. The Baron was fuming, but he did not speak. "Your permits!" reiterated Le Bour, flourishing his license. There was an awkward silence; not a few in the party had left their permits at home.
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