Nor did he want for relaxation.
There were great woods on the hills behind the Maison Blanche, and in these he obtained leave to shoot rabbits, and, horrible to say, foxes.
Juliette and he would set out together towards evening, accompanied by a clever cur which belonged to Jean, the factotum of the house.
They would post themselves at some convenient spot, while the instructed hound ranged the woods above.

Then would appear perhaps a rabbit, perhaps a hare, though these in that land of poaching were not common, or occasionally a great, red, stealthy fox.

At first, with his English traditions, Godfrey shrank from shooting the last, which he had been taught ought to die in one way only, namely, by being torn to pieces in the jaws of the hounds.
Juliette, however, mocked at him, volubly reciting Reynard's many misdeeds--how he stole chickens; how he tore out the throats of lambs, and, according to local report, was not even above killing a baby if he found that innocent alone.

So it came about next time the excited yapping of the cur-dog was heard on the slopes above them, followed by stealthy movements among the fallen pine needles, and at length by the appearance of the beautiful red creature slyly slinking away to shelter, not twenty yards from where they stood behind a tree-trunk, that Juliette whispered: "_Tirez_! _Tirez_!" and he lifted the gun, an old-fashioned, single-barrelled piece, aimed and fired.
Then followed a horrid scene.

The big shot with which he had loaded, mortally wounded but did not kill the fox, that with its forepaws broken, rolled, and bit, and made dreadful noises in its agony, its beautiful fur all stained with blood.