When he had gone by, Marie and I said, both at the same time, and a little dazzled, “An eagle!”

We saw him again at the end of a stag-hunt.  They had driven a stag into the Morteuil forest.  The mort took place in a clearing in the park, near the outer wall.  The Baroness, who always thought of the townsfolk, had ordered the little gate to be opened which gives into this part of the demesne, so that the public could be present at the spectacle.

It was imperious and pompous.  The scene one entered, on leaving the sunny fields and passing through the gate, was a huge circle of dark foliage in the heart of the ancient forest.  At first, one saw only the majestic summits of mountainous trees, like peaks and globes lost amid the heavens, which on all sides overhung the clearing and bathed it in twilight almost green.

In this lordly solemnity of nature, down among the grass, moss and dead wood, there flowed a contracted but brilliant concourse around the final preparations for the execution of the stag.

The animal was kneeling on the ground, weak and overwhelmed.  We pressed round, and eyes were thrust forward between heads and shoulders to see him.  One could make out the gray thicket of his antlers, his great lolling tongue, and the enormous throb of his heart, agitating his exhausted body.  A little wounded fawn clung to him, bleeding abundantly, flowing like a spring.

Round about it the ceremony was arranged in several circles.  The beaters, in ranks, made a glaring red patch in the moist green atmosphere.  The hunters, men and women, all dismounted, in scarlet coats and black hats, crowded together.  Apart, the saddle and tackle horses snorted, with creaking of leather and jingle of metal.  Kept at a respectful distance by a rope extended hastily on posts, the inquisitive crowd flowed and increased every instant.

The blood which issued from the little fawn made a widening pool, and one saw the ladies of the hunt, who came to look as near as possible, pluck up their habits so that they would not tread in it.  The sight of the great stag crushed by weariness, gradually drooping his branching head, tormented by the howls of the hounds which the whipper-in held back with difficulty, and that of the little one, cowering beside him and dying with gaping throat, would have been touching had one given way to sentiment.

I noticed that the imminent slaying of the stag excited a certain curious fever.  Around me the women and young girls especially elbowed and wriggled their way to the front, and shuddered, and were glad.