HOMESICK
Pitchouné was a soldier's dog, born in a stable, of a mother who had
been dear to the canteen. Michette had been _une vrai_ vivandière, a
real daughter of the regiment.
Pitchouné was a worthy son. He adored the drums and trumpets. He
adored the fife. He adored the drills which he was accustomed to
watch from a respectable distance. He liked Brunet, and the word had
not yet been discovered which would _express_ how he felt toward
Monsieur le Capitaine, his master. His muscular little form
expressed it in every fiber. His brown eyes looked it until their
pathos might have melted a heart of iron.
There was nothing picturesque to Pitchouné in the Château d'Esclignac
or in the charming room to which he was brought. The little dog took
a flying tour around it, over sofas and chairs, landing on the
window-seat, where he crouched. He was not wicked, but he was
perfectly miserable, and the lovely wiles of Julia Redmond and her
endearments left him unmoved. He refused meat and drink, was
indifferent to the views from the window, to the beautiful view of
King René's castle, to the tantalizing cat sunning herself against
the wall. He flew about like mad, leaving destruction in his wake,
tugged at the leash when they took him out for exercise. In short,
Pitchouné was a homesick, lovesick little dog, and thereby endeared
himself more than ever to his new mistress. She tied a ribbon around
his neck, which he promptly chewed and scratched off. She tried to
feed him with her own fair hands; he held his head high, looked bored
and grew thin in the flanks.
"I think Captain de Sabron's little dog is going to die, _ma tante_,"
she told her aunt.
"Fiddlesticks, my dear Julia! Keep him tied up until he is
accustomed to the place. It won't hurt him to fast; he will eat when
he is hungry. I have a note from Robert. He has not gone to Monte
Carlo."
"Ah!" breathed Miss Redmond indifferently.
She slowly went over to her piano and played a few measures of music
that were a torture to Pitchouné, who found these ladylike
performances in strong contrast to drums and trumpets. He felt
himself as a soldier degraded and could not understand why he should
be relegated to a salon and to the mild society of two ladies who did
not even know how to pull his ears or roll him over on the rug with
their riding boots and spurs. He sat against the window as was his
habit, looking, watching, yearning.
"_Vous avez tort, ma chère,_" said her aunt, who was working
something less than a thousand flowers on her tapestry. "The chance
to be a princess and a Tremont does not come twice in a young girl's
life, and you know you have only to be reasonable, Julia."
Miss Redmond's fingers wandered, magnetically drawn by her thoughts,
into a song which she played softly through. Pitchouné heard and
turned his beautiful head and his soft eyes to her. He knew that
tune. Neither drums nor trumpets had played it but there was no
doubt about its being fit for soldiers. He had heard his master sing
it, hum it, many times. It had soothed his nerves when he was a sick
puppy and it went with many things of the intimate life with his
master. He remembered it when he had dozed by the fire and dreamed
of chasing cats and barking at Brunet and being a faithful dog all
around; he heard again a beloved voice hum it to him. Pitchouné
whined and softly jumped down from his seat. He put his forepaws on
Miss Redmond's lap. She stopped and caressed him, and he licked her
hand.
"That is the first time I have seen that dog show a spark of human
gratitude, Julia, He is probably begging you to open the door and let
him take a run."
Indeed Pitchouné did go to the door and waited appealingly.
"I think you might trust him out. I think he is tamed," said the
Marquise d'Esclignac. "He is a real little savage."
Miss Redmond opened the door and Pitchouné shot out. She watched him
tear like mad across the terrace, and scuttle into the woods, as she
thought, after a rabbit. He was the color of the fallen leaves and
she lost sight of him in the brown and golden brush.