At sight of Julien and Claudet, there was a joyous hurrah of welcome.  Justice Destourbet exchanged a ceremonious hand-shake with the new proprietor of the chateau.  The scant costume and tight gaiters of the huntsman’s attire, displayed more than ever the height and slimness of the country magistrate.  By his side, the registrar Seurrot, his legs encased in blue linen spatterdashes, his back bent, his hands crossed comfortably over his “corporation,” sat roasting himself at the flame, while grumbling when the wind blew the smoke in his eyes.  Arbillot, the notary, as agile and restless as a lizard, kept going from one to the other with an air of mysterious importance.  He came up to Claudet, drew him aside, and showed him a little figure in a case.

“Look here!” whispered he, “we shall have some fun; as I passed by the Abbe Pernot’s this morning, I stole one of his stuffed squirrels.”

He stooped down, and with an air of great mystery poured into his ear the rest of the communication, at the close of which his small black eyes twinkled maliciously, and he passed the end of his tongue over his frozen moustache.

“Come with me,” continued he; “it will be a good joke on the collector.”

He drew Claudet and Hutinet toward one of the trenches, where the fog hid them from sight.

During this colloquy, Boucheseiche the collector, against whom they were thus plotting, had seized upon Julien de Buxieres, and was putting him through a course of hunting lore.  Justin Boucheseiche was a man of remarkable ugliness; big, bony, freckled, with red hair, hairy hands, and a loud, rough voice.

He wore a perfectly new hunting costume, cap and gaiters of leather, a havana-colored waistcoat, and had a complete assortment of pockets of all sizes for the cartridges.  He pretended to be a great authority on all matters relating to the chase, although he was, in fact, the worst shot in the whole canton; and when he had the good luck to meet with a newcomer, he launched forth on the recital of his imaginary prowess, without any pity for the hearer.  So that, having once got hold of Julien, he kept by his side when they sat down to breakfast.

All these country huntsmen were blessed with healthy appetites.  They ate heartily, and drank in the same fashion, especially the collector Boucheseiche, who justified his name by pouring out numerous bumpers of white wine.  During the first quarter of an hour nothing could be heard but the noise of jaws masticating, glasses and forks clinking; but when the savory pastries, the cold game and the hams had disappeared, and had been replaced by goblets of hot Burgundy and boiling coffee, then tongues became loosened.  Julien, to his infinite disgust, was forced again to be present at a conversation similar to the one at the time of the raising of the seals, the coarseness of which had so astonished and shocked him.  After the anecdotes of the chase were exhausted, the guests