Uncle, Mom's younger brother, has a knack for entertaining the crowd and exasperating his father with his imaginative jokes. Much later, back in mainland France, he would go on to have an exemplary military career, becoming director of an engineering school on the banks of the Meuse River and ending his career with a higher rank than his father. In other words, he would become a very serious man, but at this point, he was still an impetuous young man.
He decided to take his sweet sister, who was rather reluctant, on a hunting trip in the surrounding clearings. He convinced her to take her son, who was recovering from illness, promising to carry him if his little legs couldn't keep up. The air purified by the storms, her love for her brother, the only source of laughter in this austere family, and the desire to escape the daily grind eventually win her over.
So off they go, the trio on the muddy trails, the hunter first, followed by the delighted little boy. They sing at the top of their lungs, which is not conducive to surprising the game lurking in the thickets, camouflaged in the tall grass, hiding at the foot of the trees. All the animals are startled and flee at the sound of the commotion produced by the small group of walkers.
All of them. Except for nine guinea fowls perched on the lowest branch of an ancient tree! They appear before the young man's dazzled and eager eyes. Lined up like bottles in a pharmacist's cabinet, wing to wing, they cackle loudly, seeming to call out to the walkers. It happened so quickly, around a nearby grove, that the rifle was not yet loaded. Feverishly, the budding hunter pulled cartridges from his pockets, dropping some into a puddle of water, his agitation provoking a renewed clucking from the still-motionless birds. Finally, he aimed at the row and fired!
Surprised, the toddler falls on his bottom! Two or three guinea fowls collapse in a cloud of feathers and the others turn their heads, squawking even louder, still without moving. His sister, fascinated by the stupidity of the birds, forgot to watch her little rascal, who had discovered that the plastic mud at the edge of the puddle where he was wallowing made wonderful little patties, kept the impression of his hands with spread fingers for a long time, then dissolved in the water in fine, elegant brownish swirls.
A second shot rings out, and several more victims collapse. The survivors begin to flutter from branch to branch, but not all of them escape the final shots. Proud as Artaban, the uncle gathers the spoils into a bag while his sister discovers, scandalized, that her little boy has not yet learned the duty of cleanliness that every child should keep in mind. As she giggles at the sight of her muddy little boy, a tender glance is enough to spare him any excessive reprimand. It will be a different story when they return, with
A second shot rings out, and several more victims collapse. The survivors begin to flutter from branch to branch, but not all of them escape the final shots. Proud as Artaban, the uncle gathers the spoils into a bag while his sister discovers, scandalized, that her little boy has not yet learned the duty of cleanliness that every child should keep in mind. As she giggles at the sight of her muddy little boy, a tender glance is enough to spare her from excessive scolding. It will be a different story when they return, with Maama in charge of the laundry.
The trio lingers a little longer, but the child is filthy anyway. Who knows, maybe the hunter will encounter more combative game? They finally decide to go home when the child starts whining and dragging his feet.
Back home, a welcoming committee awaits Mars and Diane: the impassive patriarch, their very annoyed mother, a disgruntled neighbor, and the hilarious gardener. “Was the hunt good?” asks the man with the pipe, intrigued by his son. “Yes, I killed seven guinea fowls,” announces the son proudly. The neighbor groans pitifully while the commander struggles to keep a straight face. “You are a great hunter! Alas, those were the neighbor's guinea fowls, enjoying the fresh air behind their coop.”
Late realization: the brother and sister look at each other, crestfallen. That's why those stupid birds didn't move! They were used to being fed by the man. The bloody game bag is placed on the ground and the neighbor bends over. He discovers the massacre.
His beautiful plump guinea fowls are now nothing more than a pile of reddened and crumpled feathers, rather unsavory, with here and there a broken wing, a twisted neck, bulging eyes. “Major, come on!” He tries to elicit sympathy for his misfortune, which he only obtains through the compassionate gaze of the Grandmother.
The spoils are shared equally between the households and the farmhands, but the Major compensates the owner while his son disappears to clean his gun and game bag. The young mother is less fortunate and is scolded for her carelessness: the little one is coming out of an illness and is soaked, where was her head? Not to mention the laundry and scrubbing of the little slob.
The Major will long boast about his son's hunting skills.
Yet it's true, because the apple never falls far from the tree! “Seven guinea fowls, my dear friend, seven! With three shots from his rifle: could you do the same?”