ner, "I should climb up there, to see--"

But Justin Boucheseiche was not a climber. He called a youngster, who
followed the hunt as beater-up.

"I will give you ten sous," said he; "to mount that tree and bring me my
squirrel!"

The young imp did not need to be told twice. In the twinkling of an eye
he threw his arms around the tree, and reached the fork. When there, he
uttered an exclamation.

"Well?" cried the collector; impatiently, "throw him down!"

"I can't, Monsieur," replied the boy, "the squirrel is fastened by a
wire." Then the laughter burst forth more boisterously than before.

"A wire, you young rascal! Are you making fun of me?" shouted
Boucheseiche, "come down this moment!"

"Here he is, Monsieur," replied the lad, throwing himself down with the
squirrel which he tossed at the collector's feet.

When Boucheseiche verified the fact that the squirrel was a stuffed
specimen, he gave a resounding oath.

"In the name of---! who is the miscreant that has perpetrated this
joke?"

No one could reply for laughing. Then ironical cheers burst forth from
all sides.

"Brave Boucheseiche! That's a kind of game one doesn't often get hold
of!"

"We never shall see any more of that kind!"

"Let us carry Boucheseiche in triumph!"

And so they went on, marching around the tree. Arbillot seized a slip of
ivy and crowned Boucheseiche, while all the others clapped their hands
and capered in front of the collector, who, at last, being a good fellow
at heart, joined in the laugh at his own expense.

Julien de Buxieres alone could not share the general hilarity. The
uproar caused by this simple joke did not even chase the frown from
his brow. He was provoked at not being able to bring himself within
the diapason of this somewhat vulgar gayety: he was aware that his
melancholy countenance, his black clothes, his want of sympathy jarred
unpleasantly on the other jovial guests. He did not intend any longer
to play the part of a killjoy. Without saying anything to Claudet,
therefore, he waited until the huntsmen had scattered in the brushwood,
and then, diving into a trench, in an opposite direction, he gave them
all the slip, and turned in the direction of Planche-au-Vacher.

As he walked slowly, treading under foot the dry frosty leaves, he
reflected how the monotonous crackling of this foliage, once so full
of life, now withered and rendered brittle by the frost, seemed to
represent his own deterioration of f