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[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 BARRIE’S 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
“You have not told us yet, monsieur le docteur,” said Agathe, “how the
little fellow fell into the water. I fancy that he was not trying to
play a trick on himself?”
“Oh, 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 isn’t 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.
“My 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.”
“Of course he patted and fondled the dog, to thank him for the service
he had rendered him?”
“He? He called him a nasty beast and said: ‘You fool, to grab me by the
hair and make my head ache! you deserve to be licked!’ That was the
young gentleman’s gratitude!”
“Oh, dear! he certainly is a wicked little boy.”
“If my son had lived,” sighed Honorine, “I am sure he wouldn’t have been
naughty like that!”
“Probably 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. Mère 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.”
“He’s a promising child!” cried Agathe; “still, I am curious to see
him.”
“And so am I,” said Honorine; “if 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!”
“What 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 doesn’t 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 it’s an evil kind of wit,
mischievous and wicked!”
“Oh! 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.”
“I do love them dearly until they are two years old; but very little
when they are growing up.”
“If this one has intelligence, there is still hope; only the
unintelligent are hopeless.”
“Ah! but what I love,” cried Agathe, “is that splendid dog, who throws
himself into the water as soon as he sees anyone in danger; that is
magnificent!”
“That is not at all extraordinary, mademoiselle, in a dog of that breed.
I do not mean to decry Ami’s 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 one’s 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.”
“Far from boring us, it will interest us deeply; but you will allow us
to work while we listen.”
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:
“What 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.
“In 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 dog’s 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 man’s 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.
“A 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 victim’s 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.
“The 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.
“In 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.
“According to Cuvier, mankind made the most useful and complete of all
conquests when it domesticated the dog. ‘Without the dog,’ he says, ‘men
would have fallen victims to the wild beasts they have subdued.’ 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 man’s 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.
“To obtain a just idea of the dog’s 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.
“Men 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.
“Pliny relates the anecdote of Alexander’s 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.
“The 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.
“Nature 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.
“Dogs 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.
“One 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.
“Everybody 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.
“Seven 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. ‘Sirrah, my boy, my lambs have gone!’
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. ‘That,’ says James
Hogg, ‘is the most amazing fact in my whole experience.’ --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.
“Hogg 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.
“If 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.
“In 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.
“Petrarch 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!
“Plutarch relates an anecdote which proves that the dog never forgets
his master’s 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.
“You 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.
“In the memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, we find this anecdote: A
malefactor had forced his way into the artist’s 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 apprentices’ room, found them
sleeping soundly, and, to rouse them, pulled off the bedclothes. As they
could not understand the dog’s 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: ‘That is the
villain who broke into my house at night and robbed me; my dog
recognized him.’ --And he was about to set the animal on the robber
again, when he confessed his crime and begged for mercy.
“One 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 Clément 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.
“On 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
duke’s 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 creature’s body and rode to the bridge of
Montereau--where he was assassinated.
“Lastly, 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 master’s life by seizing the
robber.
“These, 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 didn’t 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.
“You 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.”
Honorine and Agathe listened to the doctor with interest, so that he
went away well pleased with their society.
“Good!” exclaimed the girl when he had gone, “it isn’t 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.”
“For my part,” said Honorine, “I am curious to see this little boy, whom
they call the lost child.”
“And who is said to be so naughty.”
“Ah! my dear girl, we must forgive him much; his parents deserted him.”
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 o’clock 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:
“We will walk in the direction of the Tower.”
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.
“Why, we were misinformed as to having to pay to cross this bridge!”
said Agathe; “here 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.”
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.
“Monsieur,” said Honorine, after paying her two sous, “which road must
we take to go to the estate called the Tower?”
“Pass through the village of Gournay, straight ahead, then turn to the
left.”
“Is it very far?”
“It’s close by. The village of Gournay’s so small that it don’t take
long to walk through it; then you take the road to Noisy-le-Grand.”
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 Château 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.
“That is where Paul and his dog live!” cried Agathe.
“Hush, child!” said Honorine; “if that gentleman should happen to be
passing, and should hear you speak of him in that way, what would he
think of us?”
“Why, 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; it’s
like a château. Let us walk along this road--it will bring us nearer.”
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 friend’s 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. Ami’s
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.
“Oh! thanks! thanks! good dog!” cried Agathe, who had been terribly
frightened for her friend, and who came up at that moment. But
Honorine’s fright had been so great that it had deprived her of
consciousness; she had fallen to the ground in a swoon.
“Oh! mon Dieu! she is unconscious! Honorine! dear love! come to
yourself! the danger is all over. She doesn’t hear me--she doesn’t open
her eyes! And no one near! How can I obtain help here?”
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:
“Mon Dieu! no one will come to our help!”
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:
“Go and bring us some water, I beg you, my friend; call someone to come
and help me take care of my friend.”
The boy’s only reply was a sneering laugh; then he went away, leaping in
the air and crying:
“They’re afraid of the cow! that’s good! I’ll throw stones at the cow
again and make her run at folks.”
The small boy disappeared, but the girl’s 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:
“Help is coming!”
And his master was soon by his side.
“Oh! monsieur--I beg you--my dear friend has fainted!” cried Agathe.
Paul had already taken a phial from his pocket, and he held it to
Honorine’s nose, saying to the girl:
“It’s nothing; don’t be alarmed; your friend will come to herself in a
moment. What was the cause of this accident?”
“Fright; 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.”
“See, she is coming to herself.”
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:
“I am an awful coward, am I not? But it isn’t my fault; I was so
frightened that----”
Honorine interrupted herself, for she had caught sight of Ami’s 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 friend’s amazement, made haste to say:
“This gentleman came to my assistance, for you didn’t come to
yourself--I did not know what to do--oh! I was very unhappy!”
“But that cow that was running at me--how did I escape being hurt?”
“Because 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!”
The girl put her arms about the dog’s 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:
“Pray accept all my thanks, monsieur, and excuse me for having disturbed
you in your walk.”
“You 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?”
“No, monsieur, I feel much better; but--this is very strange--I don’t
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.”
“Well! that would be nice!” cried Agathe, doing her utmost to support
her companion. “What are we to do if you can’t walk? There are no cabs
or omnibuses here, and we are quite a long way from home.”
Ami’s 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:
“If 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.”
“Oh! you are too kind, monsieur! I am afraid of abusing----”
“No, no, take monsieur’s arm, since he is kind enough to offer it,”
cried Agathe; “for if you had only mine to support you, we might both
fall by the way; it is a long way from here to Chelles.”
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.
“Where were you ladies going when the cow frightened you?”
“We 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,” continued Agathe, “we 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.”
Honorine nudged her friend, to bid her keep silent, but Agathe paid no
heed.
“We 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?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied Ami’s master curtly, while Honorine nudged
her friend again to make her keep silent; but she continued to pay no
heed to the admonition.
“Oh! 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 doesn’t do that to everybody, does he, monsieur?”
“Assuredly 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.”
“Then 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!”
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 master’s 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 Ami’s 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:
“I beg pardon, monsieur,” she murmured; “I 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.”
“Lean on me, madame; it does not tire me in the least.”
“We have had bad luck for our first walk; do you often meet cows alone
in the fields?”
“Very 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.”
“Oh! wait, monsieur,” cried Agathe; “I 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:
“‘That’s good! I like that!’ ”
“All 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.”
“Oh! that was very naughty of the little fellow!”
“Mon Dieu!” said Honorine, “I wonder if it was the child whom they call
at Chelles the lost child?”
“Yes, 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.”
“Why, in that case, the boy must be naturally perverse,” said Agathe;
“is there no way of reforming him?”
“I 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.”
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:
“Great heaven! just look! what does this mean?”
On his side the former dealer in wines dug his elbow into Monsieur
Droguet’s ribs.
“On my word!” he exclaimed; “will you look! this is surprising!”
Thereupon Monsieur Droguet, always ready to dance, made a pirouette
which brought him nose to nose with the doctor, crying:
“What is it that’s so surprising? what’s the matter? why did Luminot say
that?”
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. Père Droguet was on the point of following
their example, but his wife suddenly caught his arm.
“Well, monsieur, what are you going to do?” she demanded; “can 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? It’s very uncivil of them! I
have a very poor opinion of those women; and they’re 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 didn’t even bow to us.”
“The ladies bowed,” said Monsieur Luminot.
“Because you bowed first; it would have been very pretty if they hadn’t
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?”
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.
“Oh! what a strange woman!” cried Agathe with a laugh; “what eyes she
made at us! Did you see, Honorine? One would say she wanted to turn us
to stone.”
“Doubtless that is Madame Droguet, whom Doctor Antoine has often
mentioned to us.”
“And that little slim man who stands on one leg when he looks at you is
probably her husband.”
When the ladies reached their house, Honorine took her arm from her
escort’s, saying:
“This is our modest abode; would you not like to come in a moment and
rest, monsieur? I must have fatigued you terribly.”
“I thank you, madame,” Paul replied, bowing, “but I will continue my
walk.”
“Oh! do come in a moment, monsieur,” said Agathe; “see, your good dog
seems to invite you; he has already gone in.”
Paul’s only reply was to call his dog which quickly returned to his
side; then he hurried away, after saluting the ladies.
“What a strange man!” murmured Honorine.
“All the same, my dear love, we were very lucky to meet him; and he
doesn’t frighten me at all now. Do you still think that he has a
terrifying look?”
“No, oh, no! but he went away very abruptly.”
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
Freluchon’s, who had just left his bed.
“What, you lazy fellow! not dressed yet! And it’s nine o’clock, and the
weather is superb, and the first days of June are the finest of the
whole year!”
“Bah! 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!”
“You exaggerate, Freluchon, my dear fellow! We have artistes also who
put on airs and are forever posing in company.”
“To them we say _zut!_--dramatic style.--But how fine you are this
morning! Have you something on hand for to-day?”
“Certainly; this is the day that we are going to Chelles, to see those
ladies I spoke to you about.”
“_We are going_ is very pretty! you are going, perhaps--that’s all
right. But why should I, who don’t know the ladies in question--why
should I go with you?”
“Because it’s 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 it’s
close by.”
“That’s an inducement; I am passionately fond of _matelote._ In Parisian
restaurants it’s execrable, as a general rule; you can’t get a good one
unless you are right on the water.”
“While I go to call on the ladies, you can find out the best restaurant
and order the dinner.”
“The best place to get a _matelote_ is ordinarily the house of some
fisherman who sells wine.”
“Oh! Freluchon, if you knew with what pleasure I shall see the lovely
Agathe again! Her name is Agathe----”
“So you told me.”
“She has dark-blue eyes with such a sweet, amiable expression; a
slender, graceful figure; perfect grace in every movement----”
“Like a cat.”
“Come, dress quickly, and we will go to the Strasbourg station.”
“Are we going to Strasbourg first? That will be the longest way.”
“Pshaw! if you began to talk nonsense!----”
“I 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?”
“I have heard that he has made a fortune--or inherited one; twenty
thousand francs a year; is it true?”
“Quite true; and, what is even truer, since he became rich, he doesn’t
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 Opéra, where he seemed to be in deadly terror that I would
take his arm:
“‘My poor Chamoureau, how is it that, in becoming rich, you have become
a bigger fool than you were? I assure you that wealth doesn’t require a
man to be insolent; I know that it often makes them so, but there’s no
obligation about it.’
“Chamoureau 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.”
“Aha! he is going to be married! and to whom?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Some wealthy retired groceress?”
“No, no! he would do much better to marry a groceress. The drivelling
idiot! he is going to marry the lovely brunette, Madame Sainte-Suzanne.”
“Thélénie! is it possible?”
“It’s a fact; he told me under the seal of secrecy; he tells
everybody--under the same seal.”
“But 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.”
“I was careful to do nothing of the kind; he would have believed that I
said it from envy, from spite; and then, d’ye 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
Thélénie 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!
There’s 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
Café Anglais to breakfast--just a cutlet; I shall save myself for the
_matelote_--and then to the station.”
The two friends breakfasted together. But Edmond gave Freluchon hardly
time to eat; he said to him every minute:
“Let us go; you have eaten enough; if you eat any more, you won’t do
honor to the _matelote_.”
“I assure you that I shall; the journey, you know, and the country air;
and then we shall not dine as soon as we arrive.--Garçon! a cup of
chocolate.”
“Great heaven! he is going to drink chocolate too! Why, it will make you
ill!”
“On the contrary, it will do me good; it’s 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!”
“That is no reason for drinking chocolate! I have known English women,
but I don’t eat plum-pudding!”
“Well! you make a mistake; you should always adopt the tastes of your
lady friends; then you end by eating everything.”
At last Edmond succeeded in dragging Freluchon from the café; 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.
“You see, I should have had plenty of time to soak my rolls in my
chocolate!” cried Freluchon as they paced the floor of the waiting
room. “Oh! these lovers! how unpleasant they are at table!--I say! they
sell cake here; I am going to fill my pockets in case of accidents.--If
this fellow Edmond were only amiable! I do whatever he wants, I follow
him to a place where I don’t know a cat, and he doesn’t say a word, he
looks as dismal as a night cap! Are you going to be like this all the
way to Chelles?”
“Oh! Freluchon, if you knew what I feel when I think that I am going to
see that fascinating girl again! It seems to me that when I am with her,
I shall not dare to say a word.”
“Well! that will be lovely! You will give them a very pretty idea of
your intelligence!”
“A man ceases to have any when he is in love!”
“In that case, I have an excellent reason for never falling in love.
_Fichtre!_ I don’t propose to lose my intelligence; it’s a thing that
can’t be replaced.”
“Do you think she’ll be glad to see me?”
“What a question! It’s as if you should ask me if I know how many times
I blew my nose yesterday.”
“If they should receive me coldly--with that frigid courtesy that means:
‘Monsieur, you are welcome this once--it’s all right--but you will
gratify us by not coming again’ ----”
“Why, you would say to them: ‘Mesdames, you will be the losers; I
improve rapidly on acquaintance’ ----”
“Ah! there’s the bell, the signal for the train; let’s hurry.”
“Hurry! what an extraordinary man! What’s the use of hurrying? there’s
always room in the cars; as the saying goes: ‘When there’s no more room,
there is still some.’ ”
The two friends took their seats, and the train started. Freluchon
scrutinized their travelling companions. Two elderly women, a child, and
three men, two of whom instantly began to smoke, in the teeth of the
regulations, deeming it perfectly natural to gratify a brutish taste at
the risk of setting the carriage on fire and roasting a considerable
number of travellers. What vile cads such people are!
Freluchon admired the landscape, as much as one can admire it from a
railway train. The country was very pretty through Raincy; but Edmond
looked at nothing, saw nothing. Whenever the train stopped, he wanted to
alight, thinking that they had arrived; Freluchon was obliged to hold
him back by the coat, saying:
“We are not at Chelles; do you mean to go the rest of the way on foot?”
At last they reached the Chelles station. The two friends alighted and
Edmond asked a peasant woman:
“Which way to Chelles, if you please?”
“To your left, up the hill.”
“And the _matelote_ country, madame?” asked Freluchon.
“To your right, monsieur; follow the main road, take the first road to
the left, cross the bridge, and you’re in Gournay.”
“Infinitely obliged. I will go in that direction, Edmond, while you go
to Chelles; you will find me at the best restaurant, cabaret or
grill-room in Gournay. It is now one o’clock; I trust that I shall see
you again by four; three hours to pay your respects is a very generous
allowance. I am going to try to find a shepherdess of the Florian type;
if it come to the worst I will be content with a bather of the Courbet
type.--Bah! he isn’t listening; he’s already on his way; he continues to
be amiable!”
Agathe was at the piano, singing and accompanying herself. Honorine,
seated by the window, was working at embroidery, glancing frequently in
the direction of the Tower.
Several days had passed since the adventure of the cow; they had seen
neither Paul nor his dog, and Madame Dalmont had just observed:
“I am sure that that gentleman was sorely annoyed to be obliged to walk
home with us; that was why he ran away without listening, I think, to my
invitation to him to rest a moment.”
“Why, yes, he did listen, because he answered: ‘I must continue my
walk.’ --Ah! the dog is more agreeable than his master!”
And the two friends had relapsed into silence.
Poucette entered the salon.
“Mesdames, here’s a fine young man who wants to know if he can have the
honor of seeing you.”
“A young man--did he give his name?”
“Monsieur Edmond Didier.”