"Well, now, how did it come about that Pyramus fell into the hands of such a master?" I asked old Cartier.
"That scamp of a dog was born with a lucky spoon in his mouth!"
"It was the simplest thing in the world. Valtat brought me a piece of lamb; Pyramus scented the fresh meat; he followed Valtat. Valtat came here; Pyramus came here. The Englishman got out of the carriage; he saw your dog. He had been recommended to take shooting exercise: he asked me if the dog was a good one; I told him it was. He asked me who owned the dog; I told him it belonged to you. He asked me if you would consent to sell it; I told him I would send and fetch you, and then he could ask you himself. I sent for you ... you came ... there's the whole story.... Pyramus is sold and you are not ill pleased?"
"Why, certainly not! The rascal is such a thief that I should have been obliged to give him away or to break his neck.... He was ruining us!"
Cartier shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, "That would not be a difficult task!" Then, passing to another train of ideas, he said—
"So you have returned home?"
"That is so."
"You were sick of Crespy?"
"I am sick of every place."