is in retreat. Our brave boys are gaining ground for our cows. We harvest the hills.) Algernon, pensive, folds the paper, a fly-fisherman kisses the general on both cheeks, and then bites him on the nose, Fontechevade frowns, punches his attacker, tears the tremendous carp from his grasp and secrets it on his person, the other retaliates, tries to strangle him, twist off his head, throw him over his shoulder, the earth trembles and cracks around them, then Algernon abandons them to their fate. My friends, he concludes, change of plans. Since Palafox is deaf to your cooings, my poor Swanscombe, we will need to supply him with different temptations. Can we lure him? It’s a tried and true tactic, the corncob delivers the rat, the lamb the wolf, the bee need only claim the bear tempted by a honeycomb. Sadarnac offers worms, larvae, flies, grasshoppers, balls of cheese, pieces of apple or raw meat. It has got to stink, bleed or wriggle. Or at least shine, and Sadarnac draws golden spoons from his boots, gilded with black dots, gilded with red dots, silver-plated, silver-plated with black dots, silver-plated with red dots, and others, gilded or silver-plated, with stripes, red or black, and feathered hooks, glittering lures, glass pearls ...
Sides of beef, chicken giblets, wildflowers, marrow bones, buckets of oats, hazelnuts, berries, chicory, carrots, lights, bran, salt, milk ... our trap is simple: victuals kept in plain sight at the foot of a tree; between the branches, a large net hung on two hoops crossed and manipulated from afar with the aid of a rope that will require one firm tug at the right moment to trap: Palafox. This hiding is a new exercise for us, men of action, it would be more natural for us to be seated in an arena. Beneath the shelter of a hedge we wait. We wait. We wait several days, the sting of the nettle is more painful but less lasting than that of the mosquito. At dawn, the humidity sticks you to your bed of leaves, fingers interlaced, a bronze lamp-base twisted tastelessly for a neck, eyes extinguished behind the head. The birds also tell their dreams to each other, in his a jay was a sow with a slit throat. A thousand nights’ other observations of general interest. No Palafox. We throw stones at crows, rodents and little carnivores that whirl around the buffet. Pssch, we’re scaring off the vipers. Flies land on our pâté, briefly, as if afraid of the snap of a tail. The sun sets - at the antipodes we do all our business with this bright fat coin darkly in hand: here is night that comes at such a cost, came with only a dime change, risen, there, the moon.
And there, Palafox. At last he appears, unhurried, to the feast. He was skinning a fly when the net fell on him. His buckings and gesticulations are to no greater effect than to ensnare him more deeply. We approach, he recoils, frightening, he beats his chest with his enormous fists, as if he was trying to hammer out armor in a hurry. We draw back. Palafox takes advantage of our hesitation, and wriggling around he attempts to slip through the netting - he has already managed to get his head and one of his paws through, three, seven, then twelve of his paws, but already we are on him. Franc-Nohain winds rope around his ankles. Swanscombe muzzles him and Algernon, Algernon chloroforms him. Two fat balls of cork borrowed from Sadarnac take the treachery out of those horns. Let us be sure we make him exhaust his venom: be careful not to make him spit his poison. Then Algernon slips him gingerly into a crystal-clear paper pouch and gives free reign to his joy. We have him, hooray. Frankly, there are few trophies on our walls of which we are as proud (Franc-Nohain nonetheless asks that we not overlook the lone lunatic that he finished off with a knife the year before, nor the courage and the cold-bloodedness which he was able to prove in such circumstances, but this goes without saying). Is it necessary to mention that Sandarac’s version of these
Sides of beef, chicken giblets, wildflowers, marrow bones, buckets of oats, hazelnuts, berries, chicory, carrots, lights, bran, salt, milk ... our trap is simple: victuals kept in plain sight at the foot of a tree; between the branches, a large net hung on two hoops crossed and manipulated from afar with the aid of a rope that will require one firm tug at the right moment to trap: Palafox. This hiding is a new exercise for us, men of action, it would be more natural for us to be seated in an arena. Beneath the shelter of a hedge we wait. We wait. We wait several days, the sting of the nettle is more painful but less lasting than that of the mosquito. At dawn, the humidity sticks you to your bed of leaves, fingers interlaced, a bronze lamp-base twisted tastelessly for a neck, eyes extinguished behind the head. The birds also tell their dreams to each other, in his a jay was a sow with a slit throat. A thousand nights’ other observations of general interest. No Palafox. We throw stones at crows, rodents and little carnivores that whirl around the buffet. Pssch, we’re scaring off the vipers. Flies land on our pâté, briefly, as if afraid of the snap of a tail. The sun sets - at the antipodes we do all our business with this bright fat coin darkly in hand: here is night that comes at such a cost, came with only a dime change, risen, there, the moon.
And there, Palafox. At last he appears, unhurried, to the feast. He was skinning a fly when the net fell on him. His buckings and gesticulations are to no greater effect than to ensnare him more deeply. We approach, he recoils, frightening, he beats his chest with his enormous fists, as if he was trying to hammer out armor in a hurry. We draw back. Palafox takes advantage of our hesitation, and wriggling around he attempts to slip through the netting - he has already managed to get his head and one of his paws through, three, seven, then twelve of his paws, but already we are on him. Franc-Nohain winds rope around his ankles. Swanscombe muzzles him and Algernon, Algernon chloroforms him. Two fat balls of cork borrowed from Sadarnac take the treachery out of those horns. Let us be sure we make him exhaust his venom: be careful not to make him spit his poison. Then Algernon slips him gingerly into a crystal-clear paper pouch and gives free reign to his joy. We have him, hooray. Frankly, there are few trophies on our walls of which we are as proud (Franc-Nohain nonetheless asks that we not overlook the lone lunatic that he finished off with a knife the year before, nor the courage and the cold-bloodedness which he was able to prove in such circumstances, but this goes without saying). Is it necessary to mention that Sandarac’s version of these
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