Few persons well acquainted with France can have failed to observe how fond the lower orders, indeed all classes, are of giving high-sounding names to their children; and it is sometimes truly amusing to notice the strange upset of associations which in consequence jar the auricular nerve, and illustrate the singularly exalted notions of the godfathers and godmothers. “Gustave Adolphe!” I once heard an old cook vociferate from the kitchen of a small inn to a boy in the yard. “Gustave Adolphe!” shrieked the aged heroine of the sauce-pans, pitching her voice in A alto, “Coupez donc les choux!” Cutting cabbages! What an antithesis to the glorious victor of Lutzen. The remark will apply with equal force to the Gustave Adolphe of the last chapter, though on a different point, and the contrast between the great Gustavus and he of Paris, was most diverting. My accomplished friend, a charming dancer, a beau parleur, a first-rate singer, who made sad havoc among the fresh and fair gazelles of every ballroom, this tremendous chasseur-de-salon, I very soon perceived, was by no means so tremendous in the stubbles; a covey fairly startled him, and if a hare rose between his legs he turned quite pale.

“My good fellow,” I said to him one day, seeing his extraordinary trepidation, “if you are so staggered by a covey of partridges, what in the world will you do when I set you face to face with a wolf or a wild boar?”

“Oh! that is a very different affair. A wolf or a wild boar? Why, I should kill one and eat the other, of course.”

“Not so easy,” I should think, “for a novice like you.”

“Novice, indeed! me a novice. Oh! you are quite in error. The fact is, these devils of birds and rabbits lie hidden, do you see, under the grass like frogs, one never knows where; so that I never see them till they are all but in my eyes, or cutting capers like Taglioni’s under my feet, and your dogs putting out their tongues, and staring at me.”

“Why, of course they do; the intelligent brutes are ready to expire at your awkwardness.”

“Much obliged to you for the compliment. Again, you say, they turn their tails to the right by way of telling me that I am to go to the left; and to the left, when I am to walk to the right. Who, I ask you, is to understand such telegraphs as these? I have not yet learned how to converse with dogs’ tails intelligence, indeed! I believe it is all humbug; for, when my whole soul is absorbed in watching the tips of these very tails, a crowd of partridges jump up just in front of me, making as much noise as if they were drummers beating the retreat. If I am hurried and stupefied"....

“And if,” I added, “you are much disposed to throw down your gun as to fire it.”

“Well! supposing I am; what is the wonder? ’Tis no fault of mine I am not used to partridge-shooting! I am not a wild man of the woods, like you! I did not cut my teeth gnawing a cartridge, as you did!”

“Come, come! don’t be affronted.”

“Affronted? No; but you have no consideration. You’re a Robin Hood, an exterminator! if you look at one partridge, you kill four! You sleep with your rifle, turn your game-bag into a nightcap, and shave with a couteau-de-châsse!”

“May be so! but let us have the fact.”

“The fact! Then I hate your long-tailed dogs, and your detestable flights of noisy birds! Let me have them one by one, like larks in the plain of St. Denis, and I’ll soon clear the province for you.”

“Upon my word, Adolphe, we should have something to thank you for!”

“I tell you what, Henri; those partridges, after all, are trumpery things to kill. ’Tis mere hurry that prevents my hitting them. Don’t imagine I am frightened! If you wish to give me real pleasure, let us go to India and shoot a lion or a tiger; give me a chance with an elephant!”

“Willingly; but allow me to suggest, that if we set out for India, we shall not get back in time for dinner.”

“We will keep in Europe, then; but, at least, show me some game worthy of me. A serpent I will cut him in two at a stroke. A bull I will soon send a brace of balls into him.”

“Well done! just like a Parisian.”

“Parisian! Pray what do you mean by that?”

“A boaster, if you prefer the word.”

“Ha! ha! a boaster, indeed! Do you mean to say that I’m afraid of a bull?”

“Of course not. However, as there are no bulls here, I will send the head piqueur upon the track of a wild boar which was seen near the chateau last night; he will exactly suit you. I consider him as doomed.”

“Thank you, Henri; thank you; the moment I am fairly in front of him, I shall fire at his eyes, and no doubt lodge both balls in them. Poor Belisarius! how he will charge me in his agony! but I shall retire, reload, and then, having drawn my hunting-knife, dispatch him without further ceremony.”

“Never fear, you shall have the post of honour; and if you do not turn upon your heel, why, my dear friend, you will rise at least a dozen pegs in my estimation.”

“Turn on my heel! you little know me; and then, what a sensation I shall create in Paris with my boar’s skin. I’ll have it stuffed, gild his tusks, and silver-mount his hoofs. I shall be quite the hero of the salons.”

That very afternoon orders were given to the head-keeper to send the traqueurs into the forest on the following day, and on their return, they announced that not only traces of wild boar had been met with, but one had actually been seen. Great were the preparations and cleaning of rifles and couteaux-de-châsse when this intelligence was received; but, in spite of his assumed composure, Adolphe’s ardour seemed considerably to diminish, and the conversation that evening over the fire was not calculated to inspire him with fresh courage.

“How very soon they find the boar!” said he to me. “Tell me how the affair commences.”

“Why these traqueurs are not long in discovering him. They know exactly where to look for one, for they study their habits; the traces of the grisly rascal are seen by them immediately; they mark his favourite paths, the thickets he prefers, the marshy ground in which he delights to wallow, and then as to the times he is likely to be seen, they can tell almost to a minute when he will pass, for the wild boar is very methodical, and an excellent time-piece. The animal, therefore, having been traced, and his retreat carefully ascertained, a day is fixed, and each person having been assigned a separate post, remains watching for his appearance on his way to or from his haunt.”

“Oh! of course, they merely watch and wait,” replied Adolphe, with a hollow, unmeaning laugh.

“Yes; but you don’t suppose that a boar will allow himself to be killed as easily as a squirrel. I fear, in spite of all your professions, you will find it not so agreeable a sport as shooting larks on the plain of St. Denis. The bristly fellow who comes trotting and grunting towards you, showing his teeth, stopping occasionally to sharpen them against the root of some old oak, is not generally in the best of humours; but you can, at any rate, reckon upon the great advantage, the want of which you deprecate in partridge-shooting. For instance, you cannot fail to see him; you have notice of his coming; you are not taken off your guard, and they very seldom appear but one at a time. It is a combat face to face, and his, with two long prominent teeth, so unfortunate in a woman, and positively hideous in a boar, effectually warns you that it is well you should be prepared to receive him. But the excitement is grand; after the volley every one is at him with his knife, and, with the exception of a few inexperienced dogs, and a Parisian novice like yourself, who, of course, are occasionally put hors de combat, the affair ends gloriously. Yes, yes, I am beginning to think you are right, Adolphe; partridge-shooting and knocking over a timid hare is very cowardly sport.”

The traqueurs also, whom Adolphe catechised, in the hope of preserving his own skin entire at the same time, though they gave him all sorts of good advice, failed not to add to it, as people of their class generally do, a budget of most fearful histories and hair-breadth escapes of horses and dogs ripped open, and men killed or gored; but that which put a finishing-stroke to Adolphe’s courage, was the entrance of a friend of mine, who had himself been a sad sufferer in one of these adventures. Wounded, but not mortally, the boar had charged him before he could reload, tearing up with his tusk the inside of his thigh; and, as he lay insensible on the ground, gnawing one of his calves off before any one could come to his assistance. During the next two months death shook him by the hand in vain, for he had fortunately an excellent constitution; “And, though the proportions of his left leg,” whispered I, “have been restored by a slice out of a friendly cork-tree, he is, as you see, quite recovered.”

“True enough!” said the new arrival, who had overheard the concluding remark, “and if you have any doubts, Sir, I will show you my leg;” but Adolphe, thoroughly convinced, declined the offer, and retired to his room for the night.

The dawn was yet gray, when the court-yard of the Chateau d’Erveau presented a very animated appearance; horses, dogs, and beaters were walking up and down, neighing, yelping, and conversing, the huntsman every now and then winding his horn, giving notice to the inmates that all was ready. The morning was superb, and as the party filed out of the yard, doffing their beavers to the ladies, who, screened behind their window-curtains, dared not return their salute, Adolphe was a little reassured. Long, however, before they reached their hunting-ground, his chivalrous feelings had so far forsaken him, that he had serious thoughts of returning, on the plea of indisposition.

“Why do you lag so far behind?” said I, riding up to him at this juncture, “why your nose is quite white. Nay, don’t blush; braver men than you have felt far from comfortable the first time they went boar-hunting. You are afraid. Come, don’t deny it; but, never mind, I will not quit you for a moment.”

“With all my heart; for, though I cannot exactly say I am afraid, yet that infernal cork-leg is continually dancing before my eyes.”

“I have not the least doubt of it; and, by Terpsichore! what a pretty thing it would be to see the handsome Gustave Adolphe de M dancing polkas and redowas in the drawing-rooms of the Faubourg St. Germain with a cork-leg or a gutta-percha calf! The very idea gives me the cramp in every toe.”

Conversing much in the same strain, the eight chasseurs arrived at the rendezvous, where they dismounted. The beaters and gardes-de-châsse were all at their posts, and on the alert to the movements of the boar, and as we advanced deeper in the forest, the conversation, which had been so lively on our setting forth, flagged, and at length subsided into an occasional remark on the obstacles which impeded our progress. Nothing renders a man more reserved than his approach to an anticipated danger. I looked askance at Adolphe, and saw that his teeth rattled like castanets; and when the foremost keepers, in doubt as to the track, blew a plaintive note, which, ere it died away, was answered by another in the distance, showing that we were in the right one, Adolphe’s breathing became stentorious behind me. And then as the branches and hazel twigs, through which we forced our way more rapidly, flew back and struck him in the face, he supplicated me to stop.

“Not so fast, my dear friend, not so fast! Have mercy on my Parisian legs! Misericorde! I cannot proceed. Do stop! There, my nose is skinned by that last branch! Good there, my breeches are breaking! For pity’s sake, stop!” But to stop was impossible; and I remained silent, having quite enough to do looking out for myself. At length we arrived at the appointed spot. Adolphe, in a state bordering on the crazy, his clothes in shreds, his face and hands bleeding from the thorns, anger in his blood, and perspiration on his brow, his furious eyes looked at me as if I had been the author of his misfortunes. And here a scene would most undoubtedly have ensued, but happily the head piqueur arrived, informing us that the boar was in a thick patch of underwood, about two miles from thence, in which he was supposed to be taking his mid-day siesta, and that a number of peasants having headed him on one side, he could not well escape. Our measures were quickly taken.

“Serpolet,” said I to the piqueur, “have you seen the animal?”

“At a distance, Monsieur.”

“What is he like?”

“Oh! a tremendous fellow long legs, enormous head, large tusks, and such a muzzle! he breaks through everything. A fortunate thing, Monsieur, the dogs were not with us.”

“Well!” said I to my father, “of course this gentleman is to have the place of honour.”

“The place of honour!” cried Adolphe, “which is the place of honour?”

“Why, the most dangerous to be sure,” replied my father, “the third or fourth post from where he breaks cover. The first or second shots seldom kill him; wounded, he continues his course, and, savage and ferocious, generally turns upon the third or fourth chasseur, at whom, with lowered head and glaring eye, he charges in full career. Oh! it is then a splendid sight, worth all the journey from Paris! Forward, my lads, forward! Hurrah! for the boar!”

“And thus ” groaned Adolphe, with thickened speech, not at all charmed with this description of his onset.

“And thus,” remarked my father, with a bow of the old regime, “you shall be fourth, and you will see the sturdy grunter in all his beauty. Come, my boys! a glass of the cognac all round; then silence, and each to his post. Here, Serpolet, forward with them, and remember, gentlemen, the word of command is ‘Prudence and coolness!’ Off! and may your stout hearts protect you!”

Then filing out from the glade where we had halted, each of us proceeded to his destination, the valiant Adolphe following Serpolet like a dog going to be drowned.

“Monsieur,” said Serpolet, “you don’t seem used to this fun; let a graybeard and an old huntsman advise you. I have seen the animal actually seen him a terrible boar, I promise you, as black as ink, clean legs, and ears well apart, all true signs of courage. As sure as my name is Serpolet, he will make mince-meat of us sure to charge. Take my advice, Monsieur; never mind what the gentlemen say about waiting; don’t you let him get nearer to you than five-and-twenty paces; if not, in three bounds he will be at you; and in another second you will be opened like an oyster. Take care, Monsieur!” and, wishing him success, Serpolet joined the beaters, who were waiting, all ready to advance.

“What shall we do?” said Adolphe as soon as he was gone.

“Do, why, take a look about us.”

We were in a kind of low, open glade, about eighty paces in length, with an immense oak in the centre a solitary spot, full of thick rushes, tufts of grass, brambles, and matted roots; in short, just the place that a boar would make his head-quarters. Adolphe accompanied me step by step, examined me from head to foot, and looked in my face as if he would read my every thought.

“Well, Adolphe,” said I, after I had considered the principal points of our position, “the moment has at length arrived when you must draw your courage from the scabbard; and I hope it will shine like the light, for something tells me you will require it ere long.”

“I’ll tell you what; I beg you will not commence any of your long orations.”

“If I talk to you now, it is because I shall not be able in a few minutes. Pay attention, therefore, to my instructions. Remain, I advise you, behind this oak, then you will have nothing to fear, and be sure not to leave it. I will place myself at the angle down yonder.”

“Down there! Why you said you would not leave me for an instant.”

“Come, come, don’t be absurd; the moments are precious; you see I shall only be distant an hundred yards.”

“An hundred yards! I tell you what if you go ten yards, I go too.”

“What! are you afraid? We are alone; come, be frank.”

“No! I am not afraid, but my nerves are shaken; I am thoroughly done up with the scramble we have had through these woods; and then that rascal Serpolet, who prophesied that I shall be opened like an oyster you shall not go, for I feel sure that when this brute of a boar makes his appearance, I shall be unable to look him in the face.”

“My dear friend, I will do as you desire. We have still half an hour to wait; but remember, no imprudence and if you should see my finger raised, mind, not a word or a sign.”

As I uttered this apostrophe, a long and harmonious note from the head-keeper’s horn, vibrating in the distance, came and died away upon our ears; after which, a confused clamour of voices arose, and as suddenly ceased.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” said I; “the traqueurs are on the move, the curtain is raised, the play is about to commence and, dear friend, be silent as death, for the actor will soon make his appearance on the stage.”

During the next ten minutes, a murmur of voices and confused sounds were again borne on the wind to the two sportsmen, announcing that the line of beaters was steadily advancing, and now they could distinctly hear them at intervals, striking the trunks of the trees with their long iron-shod poles, thrusting them in the underwood, and shouting in chorus the song of the boar.

Again the horn is heard; but now its notes are sharp, shrill, jerking and hurried.

“That, my good Adolphe, denotes that the boar has risen, has been driven from his lair, is in view, flying before the beaters, and I am very much mistaken if he does not ere long pay us a visit.”

Another blast is heard, but in very different tones to the last, and silence is again spread over the forest.

“There, Adolphe there’s a joyous and melodious note; it tells me that the monster is following his usual paths we are sure to see him soon. By St. Hubert, what lucky dogs we are!”

But the Parisian answered not, and leaned against his oak, a perfect picture of despair.

“Adolphe,” I reiterated, “he won’t be here yet, but speak low, or we may spoil everything. How do you feel? Do you think you can take good aim, and pull the trigger?”

“I feel,” whispered Adolphe, “that I am not cut out for boar-hunting.”

“Bah! Why, the other day you seemed to think it would be delightful, and now you don’t appear to like the sport; keep your heart up, be cool, and all will be well; it is only on grand occasions those when real danger presents itself, as you told me the other day that the proofs of undoubted courage show themselves; and then the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain that you were to soften with your tales of forest life ’Mademoiselles,’ you were to commence, ’when I was in Le Morvan, we had famous wolf and boar-hunting, and on one occasion’"....

“No! no!” groaned the Parisian, “I shall commence thus: On one occasion, nay, ladies, on all occasions, I much prefer being in your delightful society to that of the boars of Le Morvan.”

“Nonsense, good Adolphe, you are laughing; why, you were to have the skin stuffed, the tusks gilt, the feet silver-mounted, and the tail was to be scarlet and curly. What! do you think no more about it?”

“Oh, yes! and of the cork calves also.”

“Pooh! have we not two good hunting-knives and four iron bullets in the rifles, and a magnificent oak, a perfect wooden tower, for a breastwork.”

“Yes! we have all this.”

“And is not courage your father, and an excellent aim your mother, and is not death to the boar in our barrels?”

“Certainly! death oh! what a word at such a crisis!” and on the instant two shots were heard, which made him jump again.

“Ah! ah! good; that’s the old gentleman who has led off the ball; the music of his rifle is not to be mistaken. The grisly vagabond has by this time two bits of iron in his flanks, which will considerably hasten his march. Silence! and be on the qui vive. Listen! Hear you not the distant crash in the bushes?” Two fresh shots were now fired, but nearer. “Said I not so? he is running the gauntlet one more shot. Hush again! there he is, tearing along. Hark! not a whisper; your eye on the open, your ear to the wind, and your finger on the trigger!” But it was not the boar; for at the moment two roebucks and a fox broke near us, bounding along at full speed, when Adolphe, his face as pale as his cambric shirt, muttered, as he nearly fell upon his knees “Oh! Paris oh! Chevet oh! Boulevard des Italiens I shall never see ye more!”

“Why, Adolphe! what the deuce is the matter with you? in the name of France, be a man. If my time is to be taken up with looking after you, I shall be in a nice situation. No nonsense no useless fears? Do you, or do you not feel able to take part in the approaching drama?”

“No, I don’t I only just feel able to get up this tree.”

“What! are you in such a funk as all that? Why, what a poor creature you must be! You are the very incarnation of fear!”

“Fear? I have no fear. Who says that I have? I don’t know how it is, but I certainly do feel something a sort of qualm, something like sea-sickness everything seems going round no doubt a sudden indisposition such a thing might happen to the bravest man Napoleon, they say, was bilious at Borodino. We part for a few minutes only, dear friend; I shall ascend the oak an English king once did the same.”

Another blast of the keeper’s horn was now heard on the left.

“What does that mean?” cried Adolphe, one leg in the air.

“That signifies, the boar is making right for us.”

“Does it? Then I am up;” and, with the agility of a cat, he was in an instant safely lodged in the branches. “Ah! my friend! how different it feels up here the sickness is quite gone off, hand me the gun.”

“In the name of Fortune,” said I, “hold your coward tongue here’s the boar;” for I could now hear his snorting and loud breathing in the copse hard by.

“Do you hear him?” said Adolphe from his perch, his cheeks as green as the leaves which covered him.

“Hear him?” I exclaimed, “yes, I partly see him. What a monster! How he tears the ground! how he bleeds and gnaws his burning wounds! every hair of his back stands up, smoke and perspiration flow from his nostrils, and his eyes, glaring with agony and concentrated rage, look as if they would start from their sockets!”

On came the beaters, and in a few minutes the panting beast burst from his thicket, and rushed across the open; my eye was on every movement, and, firing both barrels, the contents struck him full in front. It was his death-blow, but the vital principle was yet unsubdued; and, summoning up all his dying energies those which despair alone can give he came at me with a force that I could never have withstood. Fortunately the Parisian’s gun was close to me, and the charge stopped him in full career. This was the coup de grace. He still, however, by one grand effort, stood nobly on his haunches, opened his monstrous mouth, all red with blood, gave out one sharp deep groan of agony from his stifled lungs, and, falling upon his side, after many a wild convulsion, at length stretched his massive and exhausted frame slowly out in death.

“Hurrah! Adolphe! you rascally acorn! shout, you badaud! give the death-whoop, and come down!”

“Is he really dead?”

“Dead! Why, don’t you see he is? Come down I say come, descend from your Belvedere the farce is played out, and your legs are all right. You are a rank coward! however, no one is aware of it but me. Don’t let others see it!” and in a minute Adolphe was at my side.

“Listen, you fire-eater! and I will make you a hero, though you could not manage to make yourself one. There were four shots fired; now, take your gun, and remember that the two first, those ghastly holes in the chest, were your handiwork do you hear?”

“Yes, but what a horrible morning! what a brute! what a savage country!”

“True, it is not like the Boulevard des Italiens;” and a few minutes after, Adolphe received, with some confusion, attributed to modesty, the congratulations of all the party. This diffidence, as it may be imagined, did not last long; his assurance soon returned, and the hurrahs had scarcely died away, before he had imagined and given a very graphic description of the last moments of the gallant boar. His toilet made, the monstrous carcass was placed upon a litter, hastily constructed with the branches of a tree, and the peasants, hoisting it on their shoulders, bore the deceased monarch of the woods in triumph to the chateau.

In the evening, Adolphe’s self-satisfaction was completed by an ovation from the ladies, who bestowed upon him the most flattering epithets. From the prettiest lips I heard, “What! this Parisian! this pale and slender young man, with such delicate hands and rose-coloured nails, fought face to face with this terrible beast? Admirable! And he was not frightened?”

“Frightened, ladies,” said I, “why he was smoking a cigar all the time!” And the secret was so well kept, and Adolphe so bepraised, that I am sure had I felt disposed to throw a doubt upon the circumstances, he would have stoutly contended that he really did kill the animal himself; and, to say the truth, he was to a certain extent authorized to say so, for the head, handsomely decorated, was sent to his mother, the following words having been nicely printed on the tusks:

“Killed by Gustave Adolphe de M. the 15th of August, 18 .”

In the course of time Adolphe’s nerves improved so much that he could manage to knock down a leash of birds, or roll over a hare; but boars and wolves he declined to have anything further to do with; and when I met him by accident some years after, in the presence of mutual friends, he said, “Ah! de Crignelle, what two famous shots those were I put into that boar! But, gentlemen,” he continued, with a sigh which seemed pumped up from his very heels, “what terrible forests those are of Le Morvan, and how dangerous the châsse aux sangliers!”