The Werewolf Blood Trail: Tales of Gore, Terror & Hunt. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
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of his belongings. But, as he told himself, all this was the ordinary thing to happen whenever one of the great lords went through a place, and the future, as it appeared to him, was far too brilliant to allow him to dwell long on this spectacle. He dressed himself in his Sunday attire, smartening himself as best he could, ate his last bit of bread with the last morsel left of his goat, went to the spring and drank a large glass of water, and started off for Croyolles. Thibault was determined to try his fortune with Madame Polet before the day was over, and therefore set out about nine o’clock in the morning.
The shortest way to Croyolles was round by the rear of Oigny and Pisseleu. Now Thibault knew every in and out of the forest of Villers-Cotterets as well as any tailor knows the pockets he has made; why, therefore, did he take the Chrétiennelle track, seeing that it lengthened his journey by a good mile and a half? Reader, it was because this lane would bring him near to the spot where he had first seen Agnelette, for, although practical considerations were carrying him in the direction of Croyolles Mill, his heart was drawing him towards Préciamont. And there, as fate would have it, just after crossing the road that runs to La Ferté-Milou, he came upon Agnelette, cutting grass by the way-side for her goats. He might easily have passed her without being seen, for her back was turned towards him; but the evil spirit prompted him, and he went straight up to her. She was stooping to cut the grass with her sickle, but hearing someone approaching she lifted her head, and blushed as she recognised that it was Thibault. With the blush a happy smile rose to her face, which showed that the rising colour was not due to any feeling of hostility towards him.
“Ah! there you are,” she said. “I dreamt much of you last night, and prayed many prayers for you also.” And as she spoke, the vision of Agnelette passing along the sky, with the dress and wings of an Angel, and her hands joined in supplication, as he had seen her the previous night, returned to him.
“And what made you dream of me and pray for me, my pretty child?” asked Thibault with as unconcerned an air as a young lord at Court. Agnelette looked at him with her large eyes of heavenly blue.
“I dreamed of you, Thibault, because I love you,” she said, “and I prayed for you, because I saw the accident that happened to the Baron and his huntsmen, and all the trouble that you were put to in consequence.... Ah! if I had been able to obey the dictates of my heart, I should have run to you at once to give you help.”
“It is a pity you did not come; you would have found a merry company, I can tell you.”
“Oh! it was not for that I should have liked to be with you, but to be of use to you in receiving the Baron and his train. Oh! what a beautiful ring you have, Monsieur Thibault, where did you get it?”
And the girl pointed to the ring which had been given to Thibault by the wolf. Thibault felt his blood run cold. “This ring?” he said.
“Yes, that ring,” and seeing that Thibault appeared unwilling to answer her, Agnelette turned her head aside, and sighed. “A present from some fine lady, I suppose,” she said in a low voice.
“There you are mistaken, Agnelette,” replied Thibault with all the assurance of a consummate liar, “it is our betrothal ring, the one I have bought to put on your finger the day we are married.”
“Why not tell me the truth, Monsieur Thibault?” said Agnelette, shaking her head sadly.
“I am speaking the truth, Agnelette.”
“No,” and she shook her head more sadly than before.
“And what makes you think that I am telling a lie?”
“Because the ring is large enough to go over two of my fingers.” And Thibault’s finger would certainly have made two of Agnelette’s.
“If it is too large, Agnelette,” he said, “we can have it made smaller.”
“Good-bye, Monsieur Thibault.”
“What! Good-bye?”
“Yes.”
“You are going to leave me?”
“Yes, I am going.”
“And why, Agnelette?”
“Because I do not love liars.”
Thibault tried to think of some vow he could make to reassure Agnelette, but in vain.
“Listen,” said Agnelette, with tears in her eyes, for it was not without a great effort of self-control that she was turning away, “if that ring is really meant for me....”
“Agnelette, I swear to you that it is.”
“Well then, give it me to keep till our wedding day, and on that day I will give it back to you, that you may have it blessed.”
“I will give it you with all my heart,” replied Thibault, “but I want to see it on your pretty hand. You were right in saying that it was too large for you, and I am going into Villers-Cotterets to-day, we will take the measure of your finger, and I will get Monsieur Dugué, the goldsmith there, to alter it for us.”
The smile returned to Agnelette’s face and her tears were dried up at once. She put out her little hand; Thibault took it between his own, turned it over and looked at it, first on the back and then on the palm, and stooping, kissed it.
“Oh!” said Agnelette “you should not kiss my hand, Monsieur Thibault, it is not pretty enough.”
“Give me something else then to kiss.” And Agnelette lifted her face that he might kiss her on the forehead.
“And now,” she said joyously, and with childish eagerness, “let me see the ring.”
Thibault drew off the ring, and laughing, tried to put it on Agnelette’s thumb; but, to his great astonishment, he could not get it over the joint. “Well, well,” he exclaimed “who would ever have thought such a thing?”
Agnelette began to laugh. “It is funny, isn’t it!” she said.
Then Thibault tried to pass it over the first finger, but with the same result as when he put it on the thumb. He next tried the middle finger, but the ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as if fearing to sully this virgin hand; then the third finger, the same on which he wore it himself, but it was equally impossible to get it on. And as he made these vain attempts to fit the ring, Thibault felt Agnelette’s hand trembling more and more violently within his own, while the sweat fell from his own brow, as if he were engaged in the most arduous work; there was something diabolic at the bottom of it, as he knew quite well. At last he came to the little finger and endeavoured to pass the ring over it. This little finger, so small and transparent, that the ring should have hung as loosely upon it as a bracelet on one of Thibault’s, this little finger, in spite of all Agnelette’s efforts, refused to pass through the ring. “Ah! my God, Monsieur Thibault,” cried the child “what does this mean?”
“Ring of the Devil, return to the Devil!” cried Thibault, flinging the ring against a rock, in the hope that it would be broken. As it struck the rock, it emitted flame; then it rebounded, and in rebounding, fitted itself on to Thibault’s finger. Agnelette who saw this strange evolution of the ring, looked at Thibault in horrified amazement. “Well,” he said, trying to brave it out, “what is the matter?”
Agnelette did not answer, but as she continued to look at Thibault, her eye grew more and more wild and frightened. Thibault could not think what she was looking at, but slowly lifting her hand and pointing with her finger at Thibault’s head, she said, “Oh! Monsieur Thibault, Monsieur Thibault, what have you got there?”
“Where?” asked Thibault.
“There! there!” cried Agnelette, growing paler and paler.
“Well, but where?” cried the shoe-maker, stamping with his foot. “Tell me what you see.”
But instead of replying, Agnelette covered her face with her hands, and uttering a cry of terror, turned and fled with all her might.
Thibault, stunned