_THE DOG CHANCE._
As the sun was not down—for we were in the midst of the long, northern
days, when darkness and daylight almost kiss each other in a parting
embrace—I suggested that we take a little stroll and look at St. Isaac’s
and other points of interest. As we were leaving the hotel, we met the
gendarme, Michel, who, I found, came often to the hotel, inquiring after
passports and any newcomers, or those who had changed their quarters. A
civil bow was all I awarded him, as I hurried outside, where I found my
friends crowded around a huge mastiff, sitting upon his haunches, as if
waiting for some one—his master, probably. He was of a species which, in
America, we call a Russian collie, and esteem for their fidelity and
gentleness. He was the handsomest dog I had ever seen, with his fine,
intelligent face, and long, silky mane, and, as I was fond of animals of
all kinds, I stooped to caress him, while he beat his bushy tail in
token of appreciation and good will.
“You are a beauty,” I said. “I wonder whose dog you are, and what is
your name?”
“Chance, and he belongs to me,” came in quick response, which made the
dog start up, while I turned to meet the drooping eyes of the gendarme
fixed on me with a quizzical expression.
“Chance,” I repeated, still keeping my hand buried in the soft wool of
the animal, who was stamping his feet and shaking his head, as if ready
for action of some kind, if he only knew what it was. “Chance,” I said,
again. “It is a strange name for a Russian dog. I had a little poodle,
years ago, which I called Chance. I’ve never heard the name since.”
“No, it is not common; and it came to him from a friend,” the man
replied. “He is a noble fellow. His grandmother was from the royal
kennels, so, you see, he has kingly blood in him. I was offered a
thousand dollars for him by one of your countrymen, and would not take
it. He is young, but is already my factotum on whom I depend.”
“Do you mean he is like a bloodhound, whom you put on the track of the
poor wretches you are hired to run down?” I asked, thinking of Nicol
Patoff, and recoiling from the dog, who put up his big paw, as if to
shake my hand, and thus conciliate me.
The gendarme laughed, and replied: “I have little need of a dog, except
in case of murder. If the czar were killed, for instance, and the
assassin were hiding, I might call in Chance’s help; and he would find
him, too, if he had ever seen him before, or anything belonging to him.
You are not afraid of him?”
“No,” I answered, and, before I could say more, the officer continued,
to the dog: “Salute the lady!”
In an instant two great paws were on my shoulders, and Chance was
looking into my face, with an expression so human that I began to feel
cold and sick, and tried to free myself from him, and in my effort
dropped my handkerchief.
“Down, Chance! That will do,” his master said, and then to us: “He will
know you now wherever he meets you, especially after I have shown him
this.”
He had picked up my handkerchief, a soiled and torn one, I saw, with a
pang, and, handing it to the dog, bade him give it to Miss Harding. He
mastered the “H,” and I was not a “Garden” to him. Obediently, Chance
brought it to me, shaking his head and holding it a while in his teeth,
as if loath to let it go.
“It is all right,” the gendarme said, taking it from the dog, but not
returning it to me. “Chance has looked on your face,” he continued, “and
smelled an article of your wardrobe. I could track you now to Siberia,
if necessary, if I had this handkerchief to show him.”
I shuddered, and put out my hand to take my property, but, with a kind
of authoritative air I had never seen in him before, he put it in his
pocket, saying, quietly: “Allow me to keep it as a means of safety to
you and your party. I have met many Americans; they are all alike; they
wish to see everything, and go everywhere, and never think of danger,
or, if they do, it does not deter them. That Dutch guide of yours,
lounging on a settee and smoking cigarettes, is no good. He will take to
vodka next, and be more stupid than ever. Madame, with her knowledge of
Russian, is a better guide than he. May as well give him up, and run
your own canoe. You see, I am up in Yankee slang. I have heard a good
deal of it. But don’t risk too much. St. Petersburg is as safe as most
cities, but be a little cautious where you go and when you go. As a
rule, our women are not often seen in the streets unattended. But we
expect different things from tourists, particularly Americans, who dare
anything to satisfy their curiosity. You are intending to go out this
evening, and the sun is nearly down. Wait till to-morrow, and, if Chance
happens to join you, don’t think it strange, either to-morrow or next
day. In the summer, when the city is full of sightseers and the court
and nobility are away, there is frequently a set of impostors and
marauders from the country, who come into town for theft and spoil,
thinking to find the visitors an easy prey. Chance knows them by
instinct, and will keep them at a distance. If he growls, you will know
there is danger, and the beggar a fraud.”
He turned abruptly and was gone, followed by Chance, bounding at his
side and occasionally picking up a stick, or whatever he could find, and
taking it to his master, expecting it to be thrown for him to catch and
take back. For a moment we watched him in silence; then the tongues of
the party were loosened, and they began to wonder why this gendarme had
seemingly taken us under his protection and given us the service of his
dog. I offered no opinion. I was still morbidly jealous for the safety
of Nicol Patoff, if he were alive and on Russian soil, as I thought
probable, and Michel Seguin’s interest in us was really centered in me,
with a hope that he might yet learn something of his enemy. It was a
part of his method, which usually proved successful, but would fail for
once.
It was beginning to get a little chilly, and I suggested that we should
return to the hotel. We found our guide, Henri, snoring loudly, with his
mouth open, his arms falling at his side and a half-burned cigarette
held fast between his thumb and fingers.
“The lout! We ought to get rid of him; he is of no earthly use, except
to draw his pay. We do not need him. You can do all he can, and more,
too; and then we shall have Chance,” my companions said, as we went to
our rooms.
As a result of this conversation, after a few days, during which Henri
showed a greater liking for vodka than for attending to us, we separated
by mutual consent, but not until he had done some pretty hard swearing,
saying “he was not hired to carry the satchels and shawl straps and
wraps and umbrellas of eight old maids, no two of whom wished to see the
same thing at the same time, or go to the same place, and who were the
hardest-to-please women it had ever been his lot to conduct.”
“Red-head,” as he called me, was the worst of all, and, if she didn’t
look out, she would find herself in the clutches of the police, romping
round as she did, looking into everything and talking to everybody.
We laughed, and left him to his vodka and his pipe and cigarettes, and
his stupid sleep in the armchair of the office, from which he
occasionally roused enough to inquire about the “eight old maids, and
what they were up to now.”