“No. If one man killed another he would have his head cut off—here in France—unless extenuating circumstances were found. With us in England he would be hanged by the neck till he was dead.”
“Then—what is your sport?”
“We hunt the fox.”
“The fox is bad eating. I never could stomach it. If I did kill a fox I made my wives eat it, and had some mammoth meat for myself. But hunting is business with us—or was so—not sport”
“Nevertheless with us it is our great sport.”
“Business is business and sport is sport,” he said. “Now, we hunted as business, and had little fights and killed one another as our sport.”
“We are not suffered to kill one another.”
“But take the case,” said he, “that a man has a nose-ring, or a pretty wife, and you want one or the other. Surely you might kill him and possess yourself of what you so ardently covet?”
“By no means. Now, to change the topic,” I went on, “you are totally destitute of clothing. You do not even wear the traditional garment of fig leaves.”
“What avail fig leaves? There is no warmth in them.”
“Perhaps not—but one of delicacy.”
“What is that? I don’t understand.” There was clearly no corresponding sensation in the vibrating tympanum of his psychic nature.
“Did you never wear clothes?” I inquired.
“Certainly, when it was cold we wore skins, skins of the beasts we killed. But in summer what is the use of clothing? Besides, we only wore them out of doors. When we entered our homes, made of skins hitched up to the rock overhead, we threw them off. It was hot within, and we perspired freely.”
“What, were naked in your homes! you and your wives?”
“Of course we were. Why not? It was very warm within with the fire always kept up.”
“Why—good gracious me!” I exclaimed, “that would never be tolerated nowadays. If you attempted to go about the country unclothed, even get out of your clothes freely at home, you would be sent to a lunatic asylum, and kept there.”
“Humph!” He again lapsed into silence.
Presently he exclaimed: “After all, I think that we were better off as we were eight thousand years ago, even without your matches, Benedictine, education, chocolat menier, and commercials, for then we were able to enjoy real sport—we could kill one another, we could knock old wives on the head, we could have a dozen or more squaws according to our circumstances, young and pretty, and we could career about the country or sit and enjoy a social chat at home, stark naked. We were best off as we were. There are compensations in life at every period of man. Viva la liberté!”
At that moment I heard a shout—saw a flash of light The workmen had pierced the barrier. A rush of fresh air entered. I staggered to my feet.
“O! mon Dieu Monsieur vit encore!”
I felt dizzy. Kind hands grasped me. I was dragged forth. Brandy was poured down my throat. When I came to myself I gasped: “Fill in the hole! Fill it all up. Let H.P. lie where he is. He shall not go to the British Museum. I have had enough of prehistoric antiquities. Adieu, pour toujours la Vézère.”
The Sixth Ghost Story Megapack: 25 Classic Ghost Stories Page 48