Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) [Illustration: Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons] _PAUL AND THE CROSS IN THE RAVINE_ _They then saw the owner of the Tower on his knees beside a grassy mound at one side of the road, in the centre of which stood a wooden cross._ NOVELS BY Paul de Kock VOLUME XIV PAUL AND HIS DOG VOL. II PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH [Illustration] GEORGE BARRIEâS SONS THE JEFFERSON PRESS BOSTON NEW YORK _Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._ PAUL AND HIS DOG PART II THE CHAMOUREAUS I THE INSTINCT OF DOGS âYou have not told us yet, monsieur le docteur,â said Agathe, âhow the little fellow fell into the water. I fancy that he was not trying to play a trick on himself?â âOh, no! mademoiselle; but still that accident happened to him as a result of his evil disposition. In the first place, he did not fall into the water--he went in himself. My young gentleman was pleased to bathe, although it isnât warm enough yet for bathing in the river; but he had been forbidden to do it, and that was a sufficient reason for him to do it. He had also been told, when he did bathe, not to go to that particular part of the Marne, because, on account of the eddies and currents, it was very dangerous and even the best swimmer might be drowned. âMy little scamp, who is afraid of nothing, did not fail to go to that spot to bathe, about three days ago. But when he tried to swim, he found that he was being drawn under; his strength failed him and he shouted for help. Ami happened to be passing--his master was not far away, probably--and in two bounds the dog was in the water. He swam toward the child, who was sinking, caught him by the hair and carried him to the bank. The little fellow had nothing worse than a fright.â âOf course he patted and fondled the dog, to thank him for the service he had rendered him?â âHe? He called him a nasty beast and said: âYou fool, to grab me by the hair and make my head ache! you deserve to be licked!â That was the young gentlemanâs gratitude!â âOh, dear! he certainly is a wicked little boy.â âIf my son had lived,â sighed Honorine, âI am sure he wouldnât have been naughty like that!â âProbably not, madame; for children generally take after their father and mother more or less, although there have been great criminals who were born of most estimable parents. But you would have taken care of your child, madame; you would have repressed his evil tendencies, corrected his faults, early in life; and that is just what poor Jacqueline could not do. The good woman, being obliged to work for her living, could not keep her eye on the boy, who, no doubt, passed his days in the village street with the other children, from the moment he was able to walk. And here it is the same: Jacqueline works for her sister, and little Emile does what he pleases, for there is no way of keeping him in the house. MÃ¨re Tourniquoi undertook to make him go to school,--but no; the rascal beat his schoolmates, laughed at his teachers, played tricks on them, concealed or destroyed the school-books--so that they turned him out of the school.â âHeâs a promising child!â cried Agathe; âstill, I am curious to see him.â âAnd so am I,â said Honorine; âif only we might by gentle treatment and reasoning bring him around to better sentiments!--for he will be a man some day! There are too many people who enjoy doing evil; and it is blameworthy to allow the number to increase!â âWhat you say is very true, madame, but in truth I believe that you would waste your time with the lost child; not that he is without intelligence and doesnât understand what is said to him;--oh! no, indeed! On the contrary, the little rascal has plenty of wit, and he often proves it by what he says; but itâs an evil kind of wit, mischievous and wicked!â âOh! doctor, consider that he is not eight years old, so you told us! One would think, to hear you talk, that you do not love children.â âI do love them dearly until they are two years old; but very little when they are growing up.â âIf this one has intelligence, there is still hope; only the unintelligent are hopeless.â âAh! but what I love,â cried Agathe, âis that splendid dog, who throws himself into the water as soon as he sees anyone in danger; that is magnificent!â âThat is not at all extraordinary, mademoiselle, in a dog of that breed. I do not mean to decry Amiâs merit, I acknowledge that it is very great--although our acquaintance began in such strange fashion, as you remember. I simply mean to say that history, both ancient and modern, relates such astounding facts with respect to dogs that one would be tempted to doubt them, if they did not come from authors deserving of credit. Moreover, we ourselves constantly witness actions which do honor to the canine race. I have read not a little--for one must do something with oneâs time, and in this small place my profession leaves me a great deal of leisure. If I were not afraid of making myself a bore, I would tell you some of these remarkable stories.â âFar from boring us, it will interest us deeply; but you will allow us to work while we listen.â The doctor, having taken a pinch of snuff, bowed to the ladies, because he thought that he was going to sneeze, and continued, with that supremely happy expression which appears upon the faces of people who are given to gossiping when they see that their listeners are profoundly attentive: âWhat I am about to tell you, mesdames, you know already, perhaps; for, I say again, they are facts reported by historians or travellers; you will please stop me if I tell what is familiar to you. âIn a history of the Indies, by Oviedo, I have read that a man who was guilty of a heinous crime was abandoned to a dog who was accustomed to eat the poor devils who were placed at his mercy. Well, the criminal having thrown himself at the dogâs feet, praying for mercy, the beast took pity on him and did him no injury. The authorities, believing that they saw the hand of God in the incident, pardoned the culprit. To my mind this is far more wonderful than the story of Androcles; for Androcles had previously rendered the lion a service by removing a thorn from his foot, and the king of beasts recognized his benefactor; whereas the dog had never before seen the man who knelt at his feet. The learned men of those days--who were men of merit too--declared that this miracle was to be attributed to the power of the manâs eyes over those of the dog; and this is the opinion of modern scholars as well; they attribute to the human glance a mighty power of intimidation, let us rather say of fascination, over all animals; and it is this power of the glance which enables men to subdue the wildest horses; but I return to the dog. âA tyrant of a small principality in Italy had a pack of hounds trained to hunt men and regularly fed on human flesh. A child was tossed to this pack and the dogs did not touch it. In this case it may have been that the victimâs tender age awoke a secret compassion in their hearts. We often have proofs that dogs are very fond of children; they display with respect to them a gentleness and patience really extraordinary. Jean-Jacques Rousseau saw a child bite a poodle until it yelped with pain, and yet it did not manifest the slightest temper. The Genevan philosopher, who claimed to be a friend of mankind, did not fail to draw this conclusion: that dogs are superior to men. âThe dog displays unwavering attachment to his master; he understands his wishes, knows his habits, always submits to his will: to serve him is a necessity of his existence. In Siberia, during the summer, the dogs are allowed to run wild, so that they may provide themselves with food. No matter how much they may be overworked, brutally treated, beaten even, they return to their masters none the less, at the approach of winter, to be harnessed anew to the sledge and resume their laborious service. âIn India there are the _pariah_ dogs, which have neither master, nor friend, nor home. They try to attach themselves to strangers, they exhaust every means of persuasion to induce them to adopt them. It often happens that one of them will follow for a long distance the palanquin of the traveller whose service he begs to enter, and he does not leave it until he falls in his tracks, utterly exhausted. âAccording to Cuvier, mankind made the most useful and complete of all conquests when it domesticated the dog. âWithout the dog,â he says, âmen would have fallen victims to the wild beasts they have subdued.â Other animals surpass the dog in strength and beauty, but throughout the world the dog alone is the ally of man, because his nature makes him susceptible to manâs advances and obedient to his will. He is a turncoat, who has deserted the ranks of our enemies and passed into our camp, in order to aid us to become masters of the other animals. âTo obtain a just idea of the dogâs real worth, we must take note of the value which savage races attach to him. In Australia, women have been known to give the breast to puppies. I hasten to add that this has never been seen in France, because the women here are not savages. âMen in general are very fond of hunting; there are some men indeed who cannot exist without it; hunting is the first instinct of the dog. In unsettled countries they join in troops to hunt the buffalo, the wild boar, and sometimes even the lion and the tiger. âPliny relates the anecdote of Alexanderâs Albanian dog, who conquered a lion and an elephant in succession, and whose tail, paws and ears were cut off, one after another, without making him give the slightest indication of pain. âThe terrier holds his own against beasts fifteen times as large as himself; no matter how cruelly his adversary may tear him, he dies without a groan. Few of the domesticated breeds possess courage and contempt of pain in so high a degree. âNature develops in dogs faculties suited to the countries in which they live. The dogs of the banks of the Nile drink while running, in order not to fall into the jaws of the crocodile. The dogs of New Orleans, when they wish to cross the Mississippi, stand barking on the bank to attract the alligators; and when they feel sure that the reptiles have all assembled at that point, they scamper away at the top of their speed and jump into the stream half a mile farther up. âDogs have been known to resort to ingenious wiles to increase their allowance of food; they scatter it all about, then pretend to sleep, in order to attract birds and rats, which by this means they add to their repast. As a proof of their intelligence, we are told of the setter who went into partnership with a greyhound for the purpose of hunting; the one having a keener scent, undertook to discover the game; the other, fleeter of foot, to run it down. The owner of the setter conceived some suspicion, and fastened a chain to his leg in order to make locomotion difficult. As he continued his wandering life none the less, they watched him, and soon discovered that his partner, the greyhound, in order to make it easier for him to perform his part of the task, carried the end of the chain in his mouth until it was time for himself to start in chase of the game. âOne of the most difficult services which the dog is called upon to perform is that of smuggler, in the contraband trade. In that dangerous service, which is often fatal to him, he displays the most surprising sagacity. He ordinarily sets out at night, laden with merchandise; he scents the customs officer in the distance, and attacks him if he feels that he can gain the victory; otherwise he hides behind a tree, a hedge, a clump of bushes. And when he has reached his destination, he does not show himself until he has made sure that he is in no danger of being seen. âEverybody is familiar with the intelligence and fidelity of the shepherd dog; we see examples of it every day as we walk about the country; but I cannot resist the temptation to mention one incident related by James Hogg. âSeven hundred lambs, in charge of a single shepherd, escaped one fine summer night, divided into several bands, and scattered among the valleys and fields and mountains. âSirrah, my boy, my lambs have gone!â said Hogg disconsolately to his dog, simply putting his thought into words, with no idea of giving him an order. Then the shepherd went hither and thither in search of his flock; while the dog disappeared, without a sound, and without the knowledge of his master, who could see nothing in the darkness. When the day broke, the poor shepherd, exhausted by fatigue and distress, was preparing to return to the farm, when he spied his faithful dog Sirrah, in a neighboring valley, guarding not simply a few lambs that he had found, as one might have supposed at first; but the whole flock, with not one missing. âThat,â says James Hogg, âis the most amazing fact in my whole experience.â --And, in truth, how can we comprehend the patience, the sagacity and the labor which enabled that dog, in the brief space of a summer night, to collect that whole band of fugitives! It was more than several shepherds together could have done. âHogg also relates how a sheep-stealer carried on his unlawful trade with the help of his dog. The thief would pretend to want to buy some sheep, and while he examined the flock, he would indicate to his dog, by a sign which he never mistook, which ones he desired to appropriate. During the night the dog would return alone, often from a considerable distance, and would never fail to detach from the flock and drive to his master the sheep he had designated, which were always the best and fattest of the flock. âIf a sheepfold takes fire, the sheep refuse to go out, but the shepherd dog saves a great part of them by rushing into the fold and barking and snapping at them until he induces them to go out. âIn Turkey, where the dogs are very numerous, every person who meets one at night is attacked unless he is provided with a lantern; for they look upon him as a stranger with evil intentions. âPetrarch had a dog that snatched a naked sword from the hand of a cutthroat who attacked his master. We have many servants who would not do as much! âPlutarch relates an anecdote which proves that the dog never forgets his masterâs murderers and never forgives them: King Pyrrhus caused his whole army to march past a dog who had watched for three months the body of his murdered master, refusing to eat or drink; he seized the murderer as he passed, and would not relax his hold until the man had confessed his crime. âYou must surely have heard of the dog of Montargis, who pointed out the place where his master had been buried, and jumped at the assassin whenever he saw him; the result being that the king ordered a duel between the man and the dog, in which the latter was the victor and slew the murderer. âIn the memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, we find this anecdote: A malefactor had forced his way into the artistâs shop at night; the dog that was on guard there tried at first to contend against him, although he was armed with a dagger. Being wounded, and feeling that his strength was failing him, he hastened to the apprenticesâ room, found them sleeping soundly, and, to rouse them, pulled off the bedclothes. As they could not understand the dogâs persistence in uncovering them, they drove him from the room and locked the door. Thereupon the poor dog, wounded as he was, returned to the robber; but he, being young and active, succeeded in making his escape. Some time after, Cellini happened to be walking one day in Rome, when his faithful dog suddenly darted at a fine gentleman who was passing, and clung savagely to him despite the swords and staves of the bystanders. At last they succeeded in forcing him to let go, but the fine gentleman, hurrying away, dropped from beneath his cloak several valuable jewels, among which Benvenuto recognized a ring belonging to him. He instantly cried out: âThat is the villain who broke into my house at night and robbed me; my dog recognized him.â --And he was about to set the animal on the robber again, when he confessed his crime and begged for mercy. âOne of the most astounding and most mysterious faculties of the dog--but not all dogs possess it--is that of divination. When the regicide Jacques ClÃ©ment appeared before Henri III, intending to assassinate him, a favorite dog of the king flew into a perfect paroxysm of rage, and only with the greatest difficulty could they succeed in keeping him in an adjoining room; had they not done so, he would have hurled himself upon the monk and the crime which the latter meditated would not have been consummated. âOn September 10, 1419, the Duc de Bourgogne, Jean-sans-Peur, mounted his horse in the courtyard of the house he occupied at Bray-sur-Seine, to ride to the interview he was to have with the Dauphin of France at the bridge of Montereau. His dog had howled piteously all night, and when he saw that his master was about to start, he darted from the kennel where he was fastened, with gleaming eyes and hair erect; finally, when the duke, after a parting salutation to Madame de Gyac who was looking on from her window, rode forth from the courtyard, the dog made such a mighty effort that he broke his double iron chain, and as the horse passed under the gateway, he threw himself at his chest and bit him so cruelly that the beast reared and nearly unhorsed his rider. The grooms tried to drive him away with whips, but the dog paid no heed to the blows he received and threw himself again at the neck of the dukeâs horse. The duke, thinking that he was mad, seized a small battle axe which he carried at his saddle-bow, and laid open his head; the dog gave a yell and fell dying in the gateway, as if still forbidding his master to go forth. The duke, with a sigh of regret, jumped his horse over the faithful creatureâs body and rode to the bridge of Montereau--where he was assassinated. âLastly, they tell of an equally admirable and equally incomprehensible act of an English bull dog, who followed his master to his bedroom one night. The latter, who had never paid much attention to the dog, refused to let him enter the bedroom; but the animal was so persistent in begging to remain with him that he finally consented to allow him to take up his quarters there. That same night, a servant stole into this same bedroom, with the intention of killing his master and then robbing him; but he was prevented by the faithful dog, who had insisted upon doing sentry duty, and who saved his masterâs life by seizing the robber. âThese, mesdames, are a few of the anecdotes which I have collected concerning the canine race and which show the exceptional claims of this faithful animal. I will add that the fine dog belonging to the owner of the Tower, for which mademoiselle feels such a strong liking, is, according to his master,--he didnât tell me so, but his old servant has often heard him say it,--it seems, endowed with this faculty of divining affection or hatred, of which I have just cited to you some extraordinary proofs. Thus Ami, when in the presence of strangers, divines their feeling for his master; he fawns on those who are inclined to like him; he growls and grumbles at those who would rather do him an injury than a good turn. âYou must agree, madame, that such a dog is exceedingly valuable; with him it is impossible to be led astray by the manifestations of affection we receive from a person; he unmasks false friends and unfaithful or deceitful women. Many people would pay an exorbitant price for such an animal, and in my opinion they would make a mistake, for it would be very melancholy to know the truth always.â Honorine and Agathe listened to the doctor with interest, so that he went away well pleased with their society. âGood!â exclaimed the girl when he had gone, âit isnât a bore to listen to him. Now I would like right well to meet the dog from the Tower and see whether he will fawn on me as he did the other time.â âFor my part,â said Honorine, âI am curious to see this little boy, whom they call the lost child.â âAnd who is said to be so naughty.â âAh! my dear girl, we must forgive him much; his parents deserted him.â II A COW Not long after this day of visits, on one of those lovely mornings which invite one to wander about the country, the heat not being sufficient as yet to make walking tiresome, the two friends, who had finished breakfast at nine oâclock because they rose at six, took their straw bonnets, threw light silk mantles over their shoulders, and having instructed Poucette not to leave the house, started off in high spirits, saying: âWe will walk in the direction of the Tower.â Agathe remembered the road, which they had already taken once. On leaving Chelles they crossed the railroad and followed the Gournay road bordered by ditches full of water. That road was short; on turning to the left they soon reached the bank of the Marne at the bridge where there was a toll of one sou for each person. This charge, apparently very trifling, made that part of the country very unfrequented; for the peasant looks a long while before spending a sou--two, in fact, when one is obliged to return; they preferred to take a route which was often much longer, but which did not force them to put their hands into their pockets. The two friends crossed the bridge; since leaving Chelles they had not met a living soul--not a peasant, not a carter, not an ass. The bridge, which was long and solidly built, was also deserted. Nor was there a sign of life on the Marne--not a boat, not a fisherman was to be seen. But they had already observed that solitude the first time that they had come in that direction; and now that the aspect of the country was changed, the trees having renewed their foliage, the meadows their verdure, the fields their grasses and flowers, the more solitary the spot, the more inclined they were to admire all the majesty of nature, all the beauties of creation. âWhy, we were misinformed as to having to pay to cross this bridge!â said Agathe; âhere we are at the end of it, and I see no one at all. Do you suppose we are to toss the sou into the water; that would be decidedly amusing.â The words were hardly out of her mouth when a man suddenly appeared in front of her. He came from a house at the left which belonged to a beautiful estate called the Maison Blanche, of which this same man was the concierge; to this function he added that of collector of tolls at the bridge. âMonsieur,â said Honorine, after paying her two sous, âwhich road must we take to go to the estate called the Tower?â âPass through the village of Gournay, straight ahead, then turn to the left.â âIs it very far?â âItâs close by. The village of Gournayâs so small that it donât take long to walk through it; then you take the road to Noisy-le-Grand.â The two young women walked on, and soon found themselves in the village square, where there was a pretty bourgeois house embellished with the name of the ChÃ¢teau Vert, probably because of the color of its blinds. Next to it was a dealer in wines, the only one in the district; which fact spoke well for the sobriety of the people. Opposite was a little church and beside that a small cemetery. The toll-gatherer was right: everything was diminutive in that place, which had less than a hundred and thirty inhabitants. The little square was shaded by noble trees which gave it a charm of its own. Trees are not proud; they grow as well in a small village as on the fashionable promenade of a city; ordinarily indeed they are finer in the village; everything has its compensations. Our travellers found some children on the square, who pointed out the road to Noisy-le-Grand. As they walked in that direction the country became more picturesque, less monotonous, and the ladies soon spied, on a slight eminence, a very pretty house, flanked by a graceful turret which overlooked the whole country. âThat is where Paul and his dog live!â cried Agathe. âHush, child!â said Honorine; âif that gentleman should happen to be passing, and should hear you speak of him in that way, what would he think of us?â âWhy, my dear love, I am simply repeating what they say at Chelles; how do you want me to speak of him, since nobody knows him by any other name? No matter, this estate of his makes a very fine appearance; itâs like a chÃ¢teau. Let us walk along this road--it will bring us nearer.â As she spoke Agathe ran ahead. Honorine followed her, but more slowly. They were then on rather a narrow road, shaded on one side by walnut trees, and intersected by numerous paths. Suddenly Agathe heard a shriek; recognizing her friendâs voice, she turned and saw, about a hundred yards behind her, a cow coming from one of the paths, at full speed, and rushing straight at Honorine, who had an excessive fear of cows and dared not advance or retreat; she simply stood where she was and shrieked. Agathe instantly ran back, to try to protect her friend; but she was too far away to reach her in advance of the cow, and the animal was within a few feet of Honorine, when suddenly an enormous dog, rushing down from a hill near by, arrived on the scene and jumped in front of the cow, barking furiously as if to forbid her to take another step. Amiâs frantic barking--for it was Ami who had come to their assistance--did in fact terrify the cow; she stopped, turned tail and retreated by the path by which she had come. âOh! thanks! thanks! good dog!â cried Agathe, who had been terribly frightened for her friend, and who came up at that moment. But Honorineâs fright had been so great that it had deprived her of consciousness; she had fallen to the ground in a swoon. âOh! mon Dieu! she is unconscious! Honorine! dear love! come to yourself! the danger is all over. She doesnât hear me--she doesnât open her eyes! And no one near! How can I obtain help here?â Ami walked about the unconscious woman, then gazed at Agathe, who was in dire distress; he seemed to be trying to read in her eyes what she wanted of him. Suddenly he bounded away and disappeared. The girl knelt beside her companion, raised her head and rested it against her breast, took her hands and called her name. But Honorine did not recover consciousness, and Agathe, in despair, cast her eyes over the deserted fields, crying: âMon Dieu! no one will come to our help!â At that moment a small boy, poorly clad, with bare feet and hair waving in the wind, appeared on a piece of rising ground from which he could see the path. Agathe saw him and called to him: âGo and bring us some water, I beg you, my friend; call someone to come and help me take care of my friend.â The boyâs only reply was a sneering laugh; then he went away, leaping in the air and crying: âTheyâre afraid of the cow! thatâs good! Iâll throw stones at the cow again and make her run at folks.â The small boy disappeared, but the girlâs wishes had been understood by Ami; he ran where he knew that he would find his master, and by pulling persistently at his jacket made him understand that it was urgently necessary that he should go with him. When Agathe was beginning to lose hope she saw the noble beast returning toward her, while his eyes seemed to say: âHelp is coming!â And his master was soon by his side. âOh! monsieur--I beg you--my dear friend has fainted!â cried Agathe. Paul had already taken a phial from his pocket, and he held it to Honorineâs nose, saying to the girl: âItâs nothing; donât be alarmed; your friend will come to herself in a moment. What was the cause of this accident?â âFright; a cow came running straight toward my friend, who is terribly afraid of them; and but for your good dog, who ran up and drove the cow away, she would certainly have been wounded.â âSee, she is coming to herself.â Honorine opened her eyes at that moment. The first person she saw was Agathe, who was leaning over her and gazing anxiously into her face. The young woman smiled as she muttered: âI am an awful coward, am I not? But it isnât my fault; I was so frightened that----â Honorine interrupted herself, for she had caught sight of Amiâs master, who was standing a few steps away, regarding her attentively; he still held in his hand the little phial he had used to restore her to consciousness. It was an easy matter for the two ladies to examine at their ease the individual of whom they had heard so much; and the result of their examination was not unfavorable to him; for although, when seen at a distance, his bushy beard gave him a somewhat forbidding aspect, on looking at him nearer at hand and at leisure, one saw that his features were handsome and distinguished, that his eyes were not always fierce, that his expression was neither threatening nor calculated to inspire alarm. Agathe, divining her friendâs amazement, made haste to say: âThis gentleman came to my assistance, for you didnât come to yourself--I did not know what to do--oh! I was very unhappy!â âBut that cow that was running at me--how did I escape being hurt?â âBecause this good old dog here ran up to defend you, threw himself in front of her and barked and jumped at her nose! Oh! it was magnificent! And then, after putting the cow to flight, he ran to fetch his master to help me bring you to yourself.--Oh! how fine that was, Ami! Come, come here and let me embrace you!â The girl put her arms about the dogâs neck and patted and caressed him; he submitted with a very good grace, wagging his tail, and looking at his master from time to time, as if to inform him that he already knew the two ladies. Honorine rose and bowed gracefully to the owner of the Tower, saying: âPray accept all my thanks, monsieur, and excuse me for having disturbed you in your walk.â âYou owe me no thanks, madame; it is a duty to make oneself of use when one has the opportunity. You do not need this phial any more?â âNo, monsieur, I feel much better; but--this is very strange--I donât know whether it is the result of my fright, but I seem to have no legs, they give way under me; I feel as if I were going to fall.â âWell! that would be nice!â cried Agathe, doing her utmost to support her companion. âWhat are we to do if you canât walk? There are no cabs or omnibuses here, and we are quite a long way from home.â Amiâs master, who, after offering his flask, had started to walk away, stopped when he discovered the embarrassment of the two friends. He realized that they still needed him, but it was evident that he hesitated, that it was hard for him not to be guided by his ordinary instinct of aloofness. But Agathe, without speaking, looked at him with an almost imploring expression, and her eyes expressed her thought so fully that Paul walked back toward them, murmuring: âIf I can be of any further use to you--take my arm, madame; lean on it without fear, and I will help you to walk.â âOh! you are too kind, monsieur! I am afraid of abusing----â âNo, no, take monsieurâs arm, since he is kind enough to offer it,â cried Agathe; âfor if you had only mine to support you, we might both fall by the way; it is a long way from here to Chelles.â Honorine decided to put her arm through the arm which their new acquaintance offered her. Agathe supported her friend on the other side, and they started. âWhere were you ladies going when the cow frightened you?â âWe will return to Chelles, monsieur, if you please. When we came out this morning, we had no definite destination; we just set out for a walk.--That is to say,â continued Agathe, âwe came this way in order to see the estate of the Tower, of which we have heard a great deal since we came to Chelles.â Honorine nudged her friend, to bid her keep silent, but Agathe paid no heed. âWe had just caught sight of it as we turned into that road; and as it seemed to us very pretty at a distance, we were going nearer in order to see it at closer quarters. We did not expect to make the acquaintance of its owner,--for monsieur is the owner of the Tower, I believe?â âYes, mademoiselle,â replied Amiâs master curtly, while Honorine nudged her friend again to make her keep silent; but she continued to pay no heed to the admonition. âOh! I recognized monsieur at once; we met him one day when we were looking for a certain field. It was then that your dog came to me and made advances. He doesnât do that to everybody, does he, monsieur?â âAssuredly not, mademoiselle. He is not lavish of his friendship! And he has one great advantage over men, in that he never gives it except to those who deserve it.â âThen I ought to be proud of his friendship for me. Oh! you splendid dog! you good old dog! Look, Honorine; see how he walks around us, and how pleased he looks!â It was a fact that Ami kept circling about the three persons who were walking along arm-in-arm. Sometimes he darted ahead, but he very soon returned, looked up in his masterâs face with a joyous yelp or two, then made the circuit of the little group anew, as if to make sure that they had not separated. This pantomime on Amiâs part did not escape his master, whose face, which wore an expression of annoyance when he first offered his arm to Honorine, began to be less severe. Honorine, who still felt very weak, was forced to lean heavily on the arm of her escort, and she apologized therefor: âI beg pardon, monsieur,â she murmured; âI am tiring you, I am obliged to lean so heavily on you. But I am not very strong, and the slightest shock is enough to make me ill.â âLean on me, madame; it does not tire me in the least.â âWe have had bad luck for our first walk; do you often meet cows alone in the fields?â âVery rarely, madame; and I am much surprised that that cow, which probably belongs to a good woman who lives near me, should have escaped and attacked you, for I know that she is not vicious; she must herself have been attacked or irritated by some one, to behave so.â âOh! wait, monsieur,â cried Agathe; âI remember now; while my dear friend was unconscious, and I was looking all about and calling for help, a little boy seven or eight years old appeared on a mound near by; he stared at me and laughed, and when I asked him to go for help, he laughed louder and sneered at me and made faces; then he ran away, jumping about and crying: ââThatâs good! I like that!â â âAll is explained then, madame; that little boy probably played some cruel trick on the cow, which thereupon fled from the pasture where she was peacefully grazing.â âOh! that was very naughty of the little fellow!â âMon Dieu!â said Honorine, âI wonder if it was the child whom they call at Chelles the lost child?â âYes, madame, it was he undoubtedly. I saw him prowling about in the direction of Noisy-le-Grand. I am not surprised to find that he has been up to some mischief.â âWhy, in that case, the boy must be naturally perverse,â said Agathe; âis there no way of reforming him?â âI have tried, without success; he defies punishment, he is insensible to entreaties; he has a most intractable disposition. If age and common sense do not change him, he will be a detestable man.â While conversing thus they had reached Chelles, and as they entered the village they met Monsieur and Madame Droguet, accompanied by Monsieur Luminot and Doctor Antoine, who were going for a walk in the country. When she espied the new sojourners at Chelles arm-in-arm with the owner of the Tower, Madame Droguet nearly fell backward; she stepped on the feet of Monsieur Luminot, her escort, saying: âGreat heaven! just look! what does this mean?â On his side the former dealer in wines dug his elbow into Monsieur Droguetâs ribs. âOn my word!â he exclaimed; âwill you look! this is surprising!â Thereupon Monsieur Droguet, always ready to dance, made a pirouette which brought him nose to nose with the doctor, crying: âWhat is it thatâs so surprising? whatâs the matter? why did Luminot say that?â As for the doctor, having no one to attack, he contented himself with bowing to Honorine and Agathe, although his face betrayed the surprise he felt at meeting them in the company of Paul and his dog. Monsieur Luminot also bowed. PÃ¨re Droguet was on the point of following their example, but his wife suddenly caught his arm. âWell, monsieur, what are you going to do?â she demanded; âcan you think of such a thing as bowing to people who have never been to call on me since they have lived in the neighborhood? Itâs very uncivil of them! I have a very poor opinion of those women; and theyâre hardly settled here before they go about with that ill-licked cub, that Monsieur Paul who also has treated us all very rudely! That was all that was necessary to confirm my opinion concerning those women. Let us go on, messieurs; forward, march! You see, that wretched fellow didnât even bow to us.â âThe ladies bowed,â said Monsieur Luminot. âBecause you bowed first; it would have been very pretty if they hadnât returned your bow! Come, Monsieur Luminot, let us go on, I beg; do you propose to remain in admiring contemplation before the skirts of those ladies?â And Madame Droguet, having given her husband a push to make him go forward, dragged Monsieur Luminot and the doctor away, and almost made them run. âOh! what a strange woman!â cried Agathe with a laugh; âwhat eyes she made at us! Did you see, Honorine? One would say she wanted to turn us to stone.â âDoubtless that is Madame Droguet, whom Doctor Antoine has often mentioned to us.â âAnd that little slim man who stands on one leg when he looks at you is probably her husband.â When the ladies reached their house, Honorine took her arm from her escortâs, saying: âThis is our modest abode; would you not like to come in a moment and rest, monsieur? I must have fatigued you terribly.â âI thank you, madame,â Paul replied, bowing, âbut I will continue my walk.â âOh! do come in a moment, monsieur,â said Agathe; âsee, your good dog seems to invite you; he has already gone in.â Paulâs only reply was to call his dog which quickly returned to his side; then he hurried away, after saluting the ladies. âWhat a strange man!â murmured Honorine. âAll the same, my dear love, we were very lucky to meet him; and he doesnât frighten me at all now. Do you still think that he has a terrifying look?â âNo, oh, no! but he went away very abruptly.â III THE EFFECTS OF MUSIC AND OF A MATELOTE It was a magnificent morning and the clock had just struck nine, when Edmond Didier appeared, very carefully dressed, at his friend Freluchonâs, who had just left his bed. âWhat, you lazy fellow! not dressed yet! And itâs nine oâclock, and the weather is superb, and the first days of June are the finest of the whole year!â âBah! what do I care for all that? It matters little to me what time it is. I rise late because I sat up very late. A little egg-supper, with some very interesting ladies from the Folies-Dramatiques. Artistes, you see--they are the only really agreeable women!â âYou exaggerate, Freluchon, my dear fellow! We have artistes also who put on airs and are forever posing in company.â âTo them we say _zut!_--dramatic style.--But how fine you are this morning! Have you something on hand for to-day?â âCertainly; this is the day that we are going to Chelles, to see those ladies I spoke to you about.â â_We are going_ is very pretty! you are going, perhaps--thatâs all right. But why should I, who donât know the ladies in question--why should I go with you?â âBecause itâs somewhere to go; it will give you a chance to see that part of the suburbs of Paris, which is very beautiful. We will dine there; we will have a _matelote;_ Gournay is famous for them and itâs close by.â âThatâs an inducement; I am passionately fond of _matelote._ In Parisian restaurants itâs execrable, as a general rule; you canât get a good one unless you are right on the water.â âWhile I go to call on the ladies, you can find out the best restaurant and order the dinner.â âThe best place to get a _matelote_ is ordinarily the house of some fisherman who sells wine.â âOh! Freluchon, if you knew with what pleasure I shall see the lovely Agathe again! Her name is Agathe----â âSo you told me.â âShe has dark-blue eyes with such a sweet, amiable expression; a slender, graceful figure; perfect grace in every movement----â âLike a cat.â âCome, dress quickly, and we will go to the Strasbourg station.â âAre we going to Strasbourg first? That will be the longest way.â âPshaw! if you began to talk nonsense!----â âI hope to continue.--Well, if it must be, I proceed to sacrifice myself. After all, a day in the country will do me good, and I shall not be sorry to form a little acquaintance with some rustic beauty. A woman of nature--that will be a novelty; for the stage is very far from nature.--Speaking of nature, do you know what has happened to Chamoureau?â âI have heard that he has made a fortune--or inherited one; twenty thousand francs a year; is it true?â âQuite true; and, what is even truer, since he became rich, he doesnât speak to his old friends. He hardly looks at me--at me, whom he never used to quit! He puts on the airs of a great noble! As you can imagine, it amuses me beyond words; and so, not long ago, I said to him in the foyer at the OpÃ©ra, where he seemed to be in deadly terror that I would take his arm: ââMy poor Chamoureau, how is it that, in becoming rich, you have become a bigger fool than you were? I assure you that wealth doesnât require a man to be insolent; I know that it often makes them so, but thereâs no obligation about it.â âChamoureau stood there like an utter idiot; he mumbled a lot of words that had no sort of connection with one another, and ended by saying that it was proper for him to adopt a different demeanor, as he was going to be married.â âAha! he is going to be married! and to whom?â âCanât you guess?â âSome wealthy retired groceress?â âNo, no! he would do much better to marry a groceress. The drivelling idiot! he is going to marry the lovely brunette, Madame Sainte-Suzanne.â âThÃ©lÃ©nie! is it possible?â âItâs a fact; he told me under the seal of secrecy; he tells everybody--under the same seal.â âBut it was your duty to impress it upon him that he is doing an insane thing, that this marriage will make him very unhappy, that all the men with any good looks in Paris have known Madame Sainte-Suzanne intimately.â âI was careful to do nothing of the kind; he would have believed that I said it from envy, from spite; and then, dâye see, I am not sorry to see him do this crazy thing. If Chamoureau were a good fellow, if he had shown himself in prosperity a man of heart, devoted to his friends, then I would have done my utmost to prevent him from tying himself to that lady. But as he did nothing of the kind, as he is nothing better than an ass, a selfish fool overflowing with vanity, who pretended to mourn for his wife in order to make himself interesting, why, let him roll in the muck, let him swallow with his eyes closed all the lies his lovely ThÃ©lÃ©nie tells him; let him roll there till he falls into a ditch, into which that lady will not fail to push him! it will be a good thing! Thereâs no harm done if fools are punished from time to time. I never pity the discomfiture of those people who are insolent in prosperity.--Now I am ready; let us go; that is to say, let us go to the CafÃ© Anglais to breakfast--just a cutlet; I shall save myself for the _matelote_--and then to the station.â The two friends breakfasted together. But Edmond gave Freluchon hardly time to eat; he said to him every minute: âLet us go; you have eaten enough; if you eat any more, you wonât do honor to the _matelote_.â âI assure you that I shall; the journey, you know, and the country air; and then we shall not dine as soon as we arrive.--GarÃ§on! a cup of chocolate.â âGreat heaven! he is going to drink chocolate too! Why, it will make you ill!â âOn the contrary, it will do me good; itâs a habit which I learned from a little Spanish dancer, who danced the _yota_, _bolera_, et cetera, at the Folies-Nouvelles, and who quivered so when she looked at her feet. Ah! my dear fellow, such a quivering!â âThat is no reason for drinking chocolate! I have known English women, but I donât eat plum-pudding!â âWell! you make a mistake; you should always adopt the tastes of your lady friends; then you end by eating everything.â At last Edmond succeeded in dragging Freluchon from the cafÃ©; but the little man, as a precautionary measure, put in his pocket the rolls that he had not had time to eat. They arrived at the station, only to find that they had three-quarters of an hour to wait for the train. âYou see, I should have had plenty of time to soak my rolls in my
{'title': 'Paul and His Dog, v.2 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XIV) by Paul de Kock', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}