Mme. Lefevre was a country dame, a widow, one of these half peasants,
with ribbons and bonnets with trimming on them, one of those persons who
clipped her words and put on great airs in public, concealing the soul of
a pretentious animal beneath a comical and bedizened exterior, just as
the country-folks hide their coarse red hands in ecru silk gloves.
She had a servant, a good simple peasant, called Rose.
The two women lived in a little house with green shutters by the side of
the high road in Normandy, in the centre of the country of Caux. As they
had a narrow strip of garden in front of the house, they grew some
vegetables.
One night someone stole twelve onions. As soon as Rose became aware of
the theft, she ran to tell madame, who came downstairs in her woolen
petticoat. It was a shame and a disgrace! They had robbed her, Mme.
Lefevre! As there were thieves in the country, they might come back.
And the two frightened women examined the foot tracks, talking, and
supposing all sorts of things.
“See, they went that way! They stepped on the wall, they jumped into the
garden!”
And they became apprehensive for the future. How could they sleep in
peace now!
The news of the theft spread. The neighbor came, making examinations and
discussing the matter in their turn, while the two women explained to
each newcomer what they had observed and their opinion.
A farmer who lived near said to them:
“You ought to have a dog.”
That is true, they ought to have a dog, if it were only to give the
alarm. Not a big dog. Heavens! what would they do with a big dog? He
would eat their heads off. But a little dog (in Normandy they say
“quin”), a little puppy who would bark.
As soon as everyone had left, Mme. Lefevre discussed this idea of a dog
for some time. On reflection she made a thousand objections, terrified at
the idea of a bowl full of soup, for she belonged to that race of
parsimonious country women who always carry centimes in their pocket to
give alms in public to beggars on the road and to put in the Sunday
collection plate.
Rose, who loved animals, gave her opinion and defended it shrewdly. So it
was decided that they should have a dog, a very small dog.
They began to look for one, but could find nothing but big dogs, who
would devour enough soup to make one shudder. The grocer of Rolleville
had one, a tiny one, but he demanded two francs to cover the cost of
sending it. Mme. Lefevre declared that she would feed a “quin,” but would
not buy one.
The baker, who knew all that occurred, brought in his wagon one morning a
strange little yellow animal, almost without paws, with the body of a
crocodile, the head of a fox, and a curly tail--a true cockade, as
big as all the rest of him. Mme. Lefevre thought this common cur that
cost nothing was very handsome. Rose hugged it and asked what its name
was.
“Pierrot,” replied the baker.
The dog was installed in an old soap box and they gave it some water
which it drank. They then offered it a piece of bread. He ate it. Mme.
Lefevre, uneasy, had an idea.
“When he is thoroughly accustomed to the house we can let him run. He can
find something to eat, roaming about the country.”
They let him run, in fact, which did not prevent him from being famished.
Also he never barked except to beg for food, and then he barked
furiously.
Anyone might come into the garden, and Pierrot would run up and fawn on
each one in turn and not utter a bark.
Mme. Lefevre, however, had become accustomed to the animal. She even went
so far as to like it and to give it from time to time pieces of bread
soaked in the gravy on her plate.
But she had not once thought of the dog tax, and when they came to
collect eight francs--eight francs, madame--for this puppy who
never even barked, she almost fainted from the shock.
It was immediately decided that they must get rid of Pierrot. No one
wanted him. Every one declined to take him for ten leagues around. Then
they resolved, not knowing what else to do, to make him “piquer du mas.”
“Piquer du mas” means to eat chalk. When one wants to get rid of a dog
they make him “Piquer du mas.”
In the midst of an immense plain one sees a kind of hut, or rather a very
small roof standing above the ground. This is the entrance to the clay
pit. A big perpendicular hole is sunk for twenty metres underground and
ends in a series of long subterranean tunnels.
Once a year they go down into the quarry at the time they fertilize the
ground. The rest of the year it serves as a cemetery for condemned dogs,
and as one passed by this hole plaintive howls, furious or despairing
barks and lamentable appeals reach one's ear.
Sportsmen's dogs and sheep dogs flee in terror from this mournful place,
and when one leans over it one perceives a disgusting odor of
putrefaction.
Frightful dramas are enacted in the darkness.
When an animal has suffered down there for ten or twelve days, nourished
on the foul remains of his predecessors, another animal, larger and more
vigorous, is thrown into the hole. There they are, alone, starving, with
glittering eyes. They watch each other, follow each other, hesitate in
doubt. But hunger impels them; they attack each other, fight desperately
for some time, and the stronger eats the weaker, devours him alive.
When it was decided to make Pierrot “piquer du mas” they looked round for
an executioner. The laborer who mended the road demanded six sous to take
the dog there. That seemed wildly exorbitant to Mme. Lefevre. The
neighbor's hired boy wanted five sous; that was still too much. So Rose
having observed that they had better carry it there themselves, as in
that way it would not be brutally treated on the way and made to suspect
its fate, they resolved to go together at twilight.
They offered the dog that evening a good dish of soup with a piece of
butter in it. He swallowed every morsel of it, and as he wagged his tail
with delight Rose put him in her apron.
They walked quickly, like thieves, across the plain. They soon perceived
the chalk pit and walked up to it. Mme. Lefevre leaned over to hear if
any animal was moaning. No, there were none there; Pierrot would be
alone. Then Rose, who was crying, kissed the dog and threw him into the
chalk pit, and they both leaned over, listening.
First they heard a dull sound, then the sharp, bitter, distracting cry of
an animal in pain, then a succession of little mournful cries, then
despairing appeals, the cries of a dog who is entreating, his head raised
toward the opening of the pit.
He yelped, oh, how he yelped!
They were filled with remorse, with terror, with a wild inexplicable
fear, and ran away from the spot. As Rose went faster Mme. Lefevre cried:
“Wait for me, Rose, wait for me!”
At night they were haunted by frightful nightmares.
Mme. Lefevre dreamed she was sitting down at table to eat her soup, but
when she uncovered the tureen Pierrot was in it. He jumped out and bit
her nose.
She awoke and thought she heard him yelping still. She listened, but she
was mistaken.
She fell asleep again and found herself on a high road, an endless road,
which she followed. Suddenly in the middle of the road she perceived a
basket, a large farmer's basket, lying there, and this basket frightened
her.
She ended by opening it, and Pierrot, concealed in it, seized her hand
and would not let go. She ran away in terror with the dog hanging to the
end of her arm, which he held between his teeth.
At daybreak she arose, almost beside herself, and ran to the chalk pit.
He was yelping, yelping still; he had yelped all night. She began to sob
and called him by all sorts of endearing names. He answered her with all
the tender inflections of his dog's voice.
Then she wanted to see him again, promising herself that she would give
him a good home till he died.
She ran to the chalk digger, whose business it was to excavate for chalk,
and told him the situation. The man listened, but said nothing. When she
had finished he said:
“You want your dog? That will cost four francs.” She gave a jump. All her
grief was at an end at once.
“Four francs!” she said. “You would die of it! Four francs!”
“Do you suppose I am going to bring my ropes, my windlass, and set it up,
and go down there with my boy and let myself be bitten, perhaps, by your
cursed dog for the pleasure of giving it back to you? You should not have
thrown it down there.”
She walked away, indignant. Four francs!
As soon as she entered the house she called Rose and told her of the
quarryman's charges. Rose, always resigned, repeated:
“Four francs! That is a good deal of money, madame.” Then she added: “If
we could throw him something to eat, the poor dog, so he will not die of
hunger.”
Mme. Lefevre approved of this and was quite delighted. So they set out
again with a big piece of bread and butter.
They cut it in mouthfuls, which they threw down one after the other,
speaking by turns to Pierrot. As soon as the dog finished one piece he
yelped for the next.
They returned that evening and the next day and every day. But they made
only one trip.
One morning as they were just letting fall the first mouthful they
suddenly heard a tremendous barking in the pit. There were two dogs
there. Another had been thrown in, a large dog.
“Pierrot!” cried Rose. And Pierrot yelped and yelped. Then they began to
throw down some food. But each time they noticed distinctly a terrible
struggle going on, then plaintive cries from Pierrot, who had been bitten
by his companion, who ate up everything as he was the stronger.
It was in vain that they specified, saying:
“That is for you, Pierrot.” Pierrot evidently got nothing.
The two women, dumfounded, looked at each other and Mme. Lefevre said in
a sour tone:
“I could not feed all the dogs they throw in there! We must give it up.”
And, suffocating at the thought of all the dogs living at her expense,
she went away, even carrying back what remained of the bread, which she
ate as she walked along.
Rose followed her, wiping her eyes on the corner of her blue apron.