Part 22 (1/2)

”Why _poor_, Pierre?” I laughed, ”with an estate like this--nonsense!”

”Ah! Monsieur does not know?”--Pierre's voice sunk to a whisper--”the chateau is mortgaged, monsieur. There is not a tree or a field left Monsieur de Savignac can call his own. Do you know, monsieur, he has no longer even the right to shoot over the ground? Monsieur sees that low roof beyond with the single chimney smoking--just to the left of the chateau towers?”

I nodded.

”That is where Monsieur de Savignac now lives. It is called the garconniere.”

”But the chateau, Pierre?”

”It is rented to a Peruvian gentleman, monsieur, who takes in boarders.”

”Pierre!” I exclaimed, ”we go no farther. I knew nothing of this. I am not going to accept a dog from a gentleman in Monsieur de Savignac's unfortunate circ.u.mstances. It is not right. No, no. Go and present my deep regrets to Monsieur de Savignac and tell him--tell him what you please. Say that my rich uncle has just sent me a pair of pointers--that I sincerely appreciate his generous offer, that--”

Pierre's small black eyes opened as wide as possible. He shrugged his shoulders twice and began twisting thoughtfully the waxed ends of his moustache to a finer point.

”Pardon, monsieur,” he resumed after an awkward pause, ”but--but monsieur, by not going, will grieve Monsieur de Savignac--He will be so happy to give monsieur the dog--so happy, monsieur. If Monsieur de Savignac could not give something to somebody he would die. Ah, he gives everything away, that good Monsieur de Savignac!” exclaimed Pierre. ”I was once groom in his stables--_oui_, monsieur, and he married us when he was Mayor of Hirondelette, and he paid our rent--_oui_, monsieur, and the doctor and....”

”We'll proceed, Pierre,” said I. ”A man of de Savignac's kind in the world is so rare that one should do nothing to thwart him.”

We walked on for some distance along the edge of a swamp carpeted with strong ferns. Presently we came to a cool, narrow alley flanked and roofed by giant poplars. At the end of this alley a wicket gate barred the entrance to the courtyard of the garconniere.

As we drew nearer I saw that its ancient two-story facade was completely covered by the climbing ma.s.s of ivy and yellow roses, the only openings being the Louis XIV. windows, and the front door, flush with the gravelled court, bordered by a thick hedge of box.

”Monsieur the American gentleman for the dog,” announced Pierre to the boy servant in a blue ap.r.o.n who appeared to open the wicket gate.

A moment later the door of the garconniere opened, and a tall, heavily built man with silver white hair and beard came forth to greet me.

I noticed that the exertion of greeting me made him short of breath, and that he held his free hand for a second pressed against his heart as he ushered me across his threshold and into a cool, old-fas.h.i.+oned sitting room, the walls covered with steel engravings, the furniture upholstered in green rep.

”Have the goodness to be seated, monsieur,” he insisted, waving me to an armchair, while he regained his own, back of an old-fas.h.i.+oned desk.

”Ah! The--little--dog,” he began, slowly regaining his breath. ”You are all the time shooting, and I heard you wanted one. It is so difficult to get a really--good--dog--in this country. Francois!” he exclaimed, ”You may bring in the little dog--and, Francois!” he added, as the boy servant turned to go--”bring gla.s.ses and a bottle of Musigny--you will find it on the shelf back of the Medoc.” Then he turned to me: ”There are still two bottles left,” and he laughed heartily.

”Bien, monsieur,” answered the boy, and departed with a key big enough to have opened a jail.

The moment had arrived for me to draw forth a louis, which I laid on his desk in accordance with an old Norman custom, still in vogue when you accept as a gift a dog from an estate.

”Let your domestics have good cheer and wine to-night,” said I.

”Thank you,” he returned with sudden formality. ”I shall put it aside for them,” and he dropped the gold piece into a small drawer of his desk.

I did not know until Pierre, who was waiting outside in the court, told me afterwards, that his entire staff of servants was composed of the boy with the blue ap.r.o.n and the cook--an old woman--the last of his faithful servitors, who now appeared with a tray of trembling gla.s.ses, followed by the boy, the dusty cobwebbed bottle of rare Musigny and--my dog!

Not a whole dog. But a flub-dub little spaniel puppy--very blond--with ridiculously long ears, a double-barrelled nose, a roly-poly stomach and four heavy unsteady legs that got in his way as he tried to navigate in a straight line to make my acquaintance.

”_Voila!_” cried de Savignac. ”Here he is. He'll make an indefatigable hunter, like his mother--wait until he is two years old--He'll stand to his day's work beside the best in France----”

”And what race is he? may I ask, Monsieur de Savignac.”