The Wolf Page #2

"The Wolf" is a short story by French writer Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of nature, instinct, and the primal aspects of human behavior. The narrative follows the encounters between a hunter and a wolf, delving into the tension between civilization and the wild. As the story unfolds, Maupassant delves into the darker sides of humanity and the instinctual drives that lie beneath the surface. With his characteristic keen observation and vivid prose, Maupassant sheds light on the thin line between man and beast, prompting readers to reflect on the fundamental forces that shape both human and animal behavior.

								

sound of the horns-all was silent along the invisible horizon; and this
mournful silence of the frozen night had something about it terrific and
strange.

He seized in his immense hands the great body of Jean, straightened it,
and laid it across the saddle to carry it back to the chateau; then he
went on his way softly, his mind troubled as if he were in a stupor,
pursued by horrible and fear-giving images.

And all at once, in the growing darkness a great shape crossed his path.
It was the beast. A shock of terror shook the hunter; something cold,
like a drop of water, seemed to glide down his back, and, like a monk
haunted of the devil, he made a great sign of the cross, dismayed at
this abrupt return of the horrible prowler. But his eyes fell again on
the inert body before him, and passing abruptly from fear to anger, he
shook with an indescribable rage.

Then he spurred his horse and rushed after the wolf.

He followed it through the copses, the ravines, and the tall trees,
traversing woods which he no longer recognized, his eyes fixed on the
white speck which fled before him through the night.

His horse also seemed animated by a force and strength hitherto unknown.
It galloped straight ahead with outstretched neck, striking against
trees, and rocks, the head and the feet of the dead man thrown across
the saddle. The limbs tore out his hair; the brow, beating the huge
trunks, spattered them with blood; the spurs tore their ragged coats
of bark. Suddenly the beast and the horseman issued from the forest and
rushed into a valley, just as the moon appeared above the mountains. The
valley here was stony, inclosed by enormous rocks.

Francois then uttered a yell of joy which the echoes repeated like a
peal of thunder, and he leaped from his horse, his cutlass in his hand.

The beast, with bristling hair, the back arched, awaited him, its
eyes gleaming like two stars. But, before beginning battle, the strong
hunter, seizing his brother, seated him on a rock, and, placing stones
under his head, which was no more than a mass of blood, he shouted in
the ears as if he was talking to a deaf man: “Look, Jean; look at this!”

Then he attacked the monster. He felt himself strong enough to overturn
a mountain, to bruise stones in his hands. The beast tried to bite him,
aiming for his stomach; but he had seized the fierce animal by the neck,
without even using his weapon, and he strangled it gently, listening to
the cessation of breathing in its throat and the beatings of its heart.
He laughed, wild with joy, pressing closer and closer his formidable
embrace, crying in a delirium of joy, “Look, Jean, look!” All resistance
ceased; the body of the wolf became limp. He was dead.

Franqois took him up in his arms and carried him to the feet of the
elder brother, where he laid him, repeating, in a tender voice: “There,
there, there, my little Jean, see him!”

Then he replaced on the saddle the two bodies, one upon the other, and
rode away.

He returned to the chateau, laughing and crying, like Gargantua at the
birth of Pantagruel, uttering shouts of triumph, and boisterous with joy
as he related the death of the beast, and grieving and tearing his beard
in telling of that of his brother.

And often, later, when he talked again of that day, he would say, with
tears in his eyes: “If only poor Jean could have seen me strangle the
beast, he would have died content, that I am sure!”

The widow of my ancestor inspired her orphan son with that horror of
the chase which has transmitted itself from father to son as far down as
myself.

The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked:

“That story is a legend, isn't it?”

And the story teller answered:

“I swear to you that it is true from beginning to end.”

Then a lady declared, in a little, soft voice

“All the same, it is fine to have passions like that.”
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