It was impossible to realise those dreadful days when we were riding and walking in the woods, so enchanting in the early summer, with thousands of lilies of the valley and periwinkles growing wild, and a beautiful blue flower, a sort of orchid.  We used to turn all the village children into the woods, and they picked enormous bunches of lilies, which stood all over the chateau in china bowls.  I loved the wood life at all seasons.  I often made the round with W. and his keepers in the autumn when he was preparing a battue.  The men were very keen about the game, knew the tracks of all the animals, showing me the long narrow rabbit tracks, running a long distance toward the quarries, which were full of rabbit holes, and the little delicate hoof-marks of the chevreuil (roe-deer) just where he had jumped across the road.  The wild boar was easy to trace—­little twigs broken, and ferns and leaves quite crushed, where he had passed.  The wild boars and stags never stayed very long in our woods—­went through merely to the forest of Villers-Cotterets—­so it was most important to know the exact moment of their passage, and there was great pride and excitement when one was taken.

Another interesting moment was when the coupe de l’annee was being made.  Parts of the woods were cut down regularly every year, certain squares marked off.  The first day’s work was the marking of the big trees along the alleys which were to remain—­a broad red ring around the trunks being very conspicuous.  Then came the thinning of the trees, cutting off the top branches, and that was really a curious sight.  The men climbed high into the tree, and then hung on to the trunk with iron clamps on their feet, with points which stuck into the bark, and apparently gave them a perfectly secure hold, but it looked dangerous to see them swinging off from the trunk with a sort of axe in their hands, cutting off the branches with a swift, sharp stroke.  When they finally attacked the big trees that were to come down it was a much longer affair, and they made slow progress.  They knew their work well, the exact moment when the last blow had been given, and they must spring aside to get out of the way when the tree fell with a great crash.

There were usually two or three big battues in November for the neighbouring farmers and small proprietors.  The breakfast always took place at the keeper’s house.  We had arranged one room as a dining-room, and the keeper’s wife was a very good cook; her omelette au lard and civet de lievre, classic dishes for a shooting breakfast, were excellent.  The repast always ended with a galette aux amandes made by the chef of the chateau.  I generally went down to the kennels at the end of the day, and it was a pretty sight when the party emerged from the woods, first the shooters, then a regiment of beaters (men who track the game), the game cart with a donkey bringing up the rear—­the big game, chevreuil or boar, at the bottom of the cart, the hares and rabbits