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could not swallow and as I handed him the cup I
was horrified to see the muscles of his jaw stiffen
with a convulsive cramp, his whole body began to
tremble and he sank down in his chair with a
terrible cry of distress. I gave him a strong injection
of morphia and told him I was so sure that the
dog was all right that I was willing to go into the
room again, but I don’t believe I would have had
the courage to do it. The morphia began to act
and I left him half-asleep in his chair. When I
returned late at night, the Russian sculptor told
me that the whole house had been in an uproar,
that the landlord had sent the concierge to say
that the dog must be killed at once and that he
had just shot him through the window. The dog
had crawled to the door, where he had finished
him off with another bullet. He was lying there
still in a pool of blood. His master was sitting
in his chair staring straight before him without
saying a word. I did not like the look in his eyes,
I took his revolver from the table and put it in
my pocket, there was still one bullet left. I lit
the candle and asked the Russian sculptor to help
me to carry the dead dog down to my carriage,
I wanted to take him straight to the Institut
Pasteur for a post-mortem. There was a large
pool of blood near the door, the dog was not there.
“Shut the door,” shouted the sculptor behind
me as the dog sprang at me from under the bed
with a horrible growl, his wide-open mouth
streaming with blood. The candlestick dropped
from my hand, I fired at random in the dark and
the dog fell dead at my very feet. We put him
in my carriage and I drove to the Institut
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