A SECOND INVITATION
"I don't think, _mon Capitaine_, that it is any use," Brunet told his
master.
Sabron, in his shirt-sleeves, sat before a table on which, in a
basket, lay Michette's only surviving puppy. It was a month old.
Sabron already knew how bright its eyes were and how alluring its
young ways.
"Be still, Brunet," commanded the officer. "You do not come from the
south or you would be more sanguine. Pitchouné has _got_ to live."
The puppy's clumsy adventuresome feet had taken him as far as the
highroad, and on this day, as it were in order that he should
understand the struggle for existence, a bicycle had cut him down in
the prime of his youth, and now, according to Brunet, "there wasn't
much use!"
Pitchouné was bandaged around his hind quarters and his adorable
little head and forepaws came out of the handkerchief bandage.
"He won't eat anything from me, _mon Capitaine_," said Brunet, and
Sabron ceremoniously opened the puppy's mouth and thrust down a dose.
Pitchouné swallowed obediently.
Sabron had just returned from a long hard day with his troops, and
tired out as he was, he forced himself to give his attention to
Pitchouné. A second invitation to dinner lay on his table; he had
counted the days until this night. It seemed too good to be true, he
thought, that another picture was to add itself to his collection!
He had mentally enjoyed the others often, giving preference to the
first, when he dined at the château; but there had been a thrill in
the second caused by the fluttering of the white dress down by the
poplar walk.
To-night he would have the pleasure of taking in Miss Redmond to
dinner.
"See, mon Capitaine," said Brunet, "the poor little fellow can't
swallow it."
The water trickled out from either side of Pitchouné's mouth. The
sturdy terrier refused milk in all forms, had done so since Sabron
weaned him; but Sabron now returned to his nursery days, made Brunet
fetch him warm milk and, taking the quill, dropped a few drops of the
soothing liquid, into which he put a dash of brandy, down Pitchouné's
throat. Pitchouné swallowed, got the drink down. gave a feeble
yelp, and closed his eyes. When he opened them the glazed look had
gone.
The officer hurried into his evening clothes and ordered Brunet, as
he tied his cravat, to feed the puppy a little of the stimulant every
hour until he should return. Pitchouné's eyes, now open, followed
his handsome master to the door. As Sabron opened it he gave a
pathetic yelp which made the _capitaine_ turn about.
"Believe me, _mon Capitaine_," said the _ordonnance_ with melancholy
fatality, "it is no use. If I am left with Pitchouné it will be to
see him die. I know his spirit, _mon Capitaine_. He lives for you
alone."
"Nonsense," said the young officer impatiently, drawing on his gloves.
Pitchouné gave a plaintive wail from the bandages and tried to stir.
"As for feeding him, _mon Capitaine_," the _ordonnance_ threw up his
hands, "he will be stiff by the time..."
But Sabron was half-way down the stairs. The door was open, and on
the porch he heard distinctly a third tenderly pathetic wail.
* * * * * * *
That evening the Marquise d'Esclignac read aloud to her niece the
news that the Count de Sabron was not coming to dinner. He was
"absolutely desolated" and had no words to express his regret and
disappointment. The pleasure of dining with them both, a pleasure to
which he had looked forward for a fortnight, must be renounced
because he was obliged to sit up with a very sick friend, as there
was no one else to take his place. In expressing his undying
devotion and his renewed excuses he put his homage at their feet and
kissed their hands.
The Marquise d'Esclignac, wearing another very beautiful dress,
looked up at her niece, who was playing at the piano.
"A very poor excuse, my dear Julia, and a _very_ late one."
"It sounds true, however. I believe him, don't you, _ma tante_?"
"I do _not_," said the marquise emphatically. "A Frenchman of good
education is not supposed to refuse a dinner invitation an hour
before he is expected. Nothing but a case of life and death would
excuse it."
"He says a Very sick friend.'"
"Nonsense," exclaimed the marquise.
Miss Redmond played a few bars of the tune Sabron had hummed and
which more than once had soothed Pitchouné, and which, did she know,
Sabron was actually humming at that moment.
"I am rather disappointed," said the young girl, "but if we find it
is a matter of life and death, _ma tante_, we will forgive him?"
The Marquise d'Esclignac had invited the Count de Sabron because she
had been asked to do so by his colonel, who was an old and valued
friend. She had other plans for her niece.
"I feel, my dear," she answered her now, "quite safe in promising
that if it is a question of life and death we shall forgive him. I
shall see his colonel to-morrow and ask him pointblank."
Miss Redmond rose from the piano and came over to her aunt, for
dinner had been announced.
"Well, what do you think," she slipped her hand in her aunt's arm,
"really, what do you think _could_ be the reason?"
"Please don't ask me," exclaimed the Marquise d'Esclignac
impatiently. "The _reasons_ for young men's caprices are sometimes
just as well not inquired into."
If Sabron, smoking in his bachelor quarters, lonely and disappointed,
watching with an extraordinary fidelity by his "sick friend," could
have seen the two ladies at their grand solitary dinner, his unfilled
place between them, he might have felt the picture charming enough to
have added to his collection.