[Frontispiece: Captain de Sabron and Julia Redmond]
HIS LOVE STORY
_By_
MARIE VAN VORST
_Author of_
First Love, The Girl From His Town
The Broken Bell, etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright 1913
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
To
Monsieur le Capitaine Dadvisard
de la Cavalerie Française
_Paris, 1912_
CONTENTS
Chapter
I A Serious Event
II Julia Redmond
III A Second Invitation
IV The Dog Pays
V The Golden Autumn
VI Ordered Away
VII A Soldier's Dog
VIII Homesick
IX The Fortunes of War
X Together Again
XI A Sacred Trust
XII The News From Africa
XIII One Dog's Day
XIV An American Girl
XV Julia's Romance
XVI The Duke in Doubt
XVII Out of the Desert
XVIII Two Lovely Women
XIX The Man in Rags
XX Julia Decides
XXI Master and Friend
XXII Into the Desert
XXIII Two Love Stories
XXIV The Meeting
XXV As Handsome Does
XXVI Congratulations
XXVII Valor in Retrospect
XXVIII Happiness
HIS LOVE STORY
CHAPTER I
A SERIOUS EVENT
Le Comte de Sabron, in the undress uniform of captain in the ----
Cavalry, sat smoking and thinking.... What is the use of being
thirty years old with the brevet of captain and much distinction of
family if you are a poor man--in short, what is the good of anything
if you are alone in the world and no one cares what becomes of you?
He rang his bell, and when his _ordonnance_ appeared, said sharply:
"_Que diable_ is the noise in the stable, Brunet? Don't you know
that when I smoke at this hour all Tarascon must be kept utterly
silent?"
Tarascon is never silent. No French meridional town is, especially
in the warm sunlight of a glorious May day.
"The noise, _mon Capitaine_," said Brunet, "_is_ rather melancholy."
"Melancholy!" exclaimed the young officer. "It's infernal. Stop it
at once."
The _ordonnance_ held his kepi in his hand. He had a round
good-natured face and kind gray eyes that were used to twinkle at his
master's humor and caprices.
"I beg pardon, _mon Capitaine_, but a very serious event is taking
place."
"It will be more serious yet, Brunet, if you don't keep things quiet."
"I am sorry to tell, _mon Capitaine_, that Michette has just died."
"Michette!" exclaimed the master. "What relation is she of yours,
Brunet?"
"Ah, _mon Capitaine_," grinned the _ordonnance_, "relation! None!
It is the little terrier that Monsieur le Capitaine may have remarked
now and then in the garden."
Sabron nodded and took his cigarette out of his mouth as though in
respect for the deceased.
"Ah, yes," he said, "_that_ melancholy little dog! Well, Brunet!"
"She has just breathed her last, _mon Capitaine_, and she is leaving
behind her rather a large family."
"I am not surprised," said the officer.
"There are six," vouchsafed Brunet, "of which, if _mon Capitaine_ is
willing, I should like to keep one."
"Nonsense," said Sabron, "on no account. You know perfectly well,
Brunet, that I don't surround myself with things that can make me
suffer. I have not kept a dog in ten years. I try not to care about
my horses even. Everything to which I attach myself dies or causes
me regret and pain. And I won't have any miserable little puppy to
complicate existence."
"_Bien, mon Capitaine_," accepted the _ordonnance_ tranquilly. "I
have given away five. The sixth is in the stable; if Monsieur le
Capitaine would come down and look at it...."
Sabron rose, threw his cigarette away and, following across the
garden in the bland May light, went into the stable where Madame
Michette, a small wire-haired Irish terrier had given birth to a fine
family and herself gone the way of those who do their duty to a race.
In the straw at his feet Sabron saw a rat-like, unprepossessing
little object, crawling about feebly in search of warmth and
nourishment, uttering pitiful little cries. Its extreme loneliness
and helplessness touched the big soldier, who said curtly to his man:
"Wrap it up, and if you don't know how to feed it I should not be
surprised if I could induce it to take a little warm milk from a
quill. At all events we shall have a try with it. Fetch it along to
my rooms."
And as he retraced his steps, leaving his order to be executed, he
thought to himself: The little beggar is not much more alone in the
world than I am! As he said that he recalled a word in the
meridional patois: _Pitchouné_, which means "poor little thing."
"I shall call it Pitchouné," he thought, "and we shall see if it
can't do better than its name suggests."
He went slowly back to his rooms and busied himself at his table with
his correspondence. Among the letters was an invitation from the
Marquise d'Esclignac, an American married to a Frenchman, and the
great lady of the country thereabouts.
"Will you not," she wrote, "come to dine with us on Sunday? I have
my niece with me. She would be glad to see a French soldier. She
has expressed such a wish. She comes from a country where soldiers
are rare. We dine at eight."
Sabron looked at the letter and its fine clear handwriting. Its
wording was less formal than a French invitation is likely to be, and
it gave him a sense of cordiality. He had seen, during his rides,
the beautiful lines of the Château d'Esclignac. Its turrets surely
looked upon the Rhone. There would be a divine view from the
terraces. It would be a pleasure to go there. He thought more of
what the place would be than of the people in it, for he was
something of a hermit, rather a recluse, and very reserved.
He was writing a line of acceptance when Brunet came in, a tiny
bundle in his hand.
"Put Pitchouné over there in the sunlight," ordered the officer, "and
we shall see if we can bring him up by hand."