That evening four joyful travelers took the train for Paris. During the trip, Clown, seated on the cushion between Bertha and her mother, his head against the shoulder of his dear mistress, gazed at her with moist, affectionate eyes. Licking her hands, wagging his pompom of a tail, and uttering plaintive little cries, he tried to tell her about all his past sufferings and his present happiness.
Who could describe Clown's joy when he reached home after his long journey, when he saw his own part of town, his own house, his own room, where once again he would have lovely naps and dream golden dreams?
When he caught sight of Marie, he jumped into her arms like a child. Marie burst into tears and could not utter a word of reproach. He leaped all over the footman, and did not forget even the cook. Then, smiling to himself, he went off to see what they were to have for dinner—and seemed well satisfied.
In a word, he took up once more his happy family life, full of delightful things: pleasant strolls with Marie, delightful wanderings with Bertha, caresses lovingly given and returned.
From this memorable day, Clown, who had learned his lesson, and grown wise by experience, was the first to bring his leash when it was time to go out.
He would carry it triumphantly in his mouth as if to say, "Don't let's forget it!" For nothing in the world could you get him to venture alone upon the streets.
At the present time Clown is perfectly happy. His adventures are all in the past.