“Can’t you guess, Monsieur Alexandre?”
“No, Mocquet.”
“You don’t guess, then, that if I come and buy powder here from Madame, your mother, instead of going to Haramont for it,—in short, if I walk three miles instead of only a quarter that distance, that I might possibly have a bit of a shoot to propose to you?”
“Oh, you good Mocquet! and what and where?”
“There’s a wolf, Monsieur Alexandre.”
“Not really?”
“He carried off one of M. Destournelles’ sheep last night, I have traced him to the Tillet woods.”
“And what then?”
“Why then, I am certain to see him again to-night, and shall find out where his lair is, and to-morrow morning we’ll finish his business for him.”
“Oh, this is luck!”