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had to arrange my dining-room as a sort of extra
waiting-room. It was always a mystery to me
how all these people could have time and patience
to sit and wait there so long, often for hours.
The Countess came regularly twice a week, but
occasionally she felt seedy and had to come on
extra days as well. It was evident that colitis
suited her far better than appendicitis, her face
had lost its languid pallour and her big eyes
sparkled with youth.
One day, as I was coming out of the hôtel of
the Marquise, she was leaving for the country, I
had been there to bid her good-bye, I found the
Countess standing by my carriage in friendly
conversation with Tom, who was sitting on a
huge parcel, half-hidden under the carriage-rug.
The Countess was on her way to the Magasins
du Louvre to buy a little present for the Marquise
for her birthday to-morrow, and did not know in
the least what to give her. I suggested a dog.
“A dog! What a capital idea!” She
remembered that when as a child she was taken
to see the Marquise, she always found her with a
pug on her lap, a pug who was so fat that he could
hardly walk and who snored so terribly that one
could hear him all over the house. Her aunt had
been in tears for weeks when he died. A capital
idea indeed. We walked down the street to the
corner of Rue Cambon, where was the shop of a
well-known dog-dealer. There, amongst
half-a-dozen mongrels of all sorts and descriptions sat the
very dog I wanted, an aristocratic little pug, who
snored desperately at us to draw our attention to
his sad plight and implored us with his blood-shot
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