“You saw him then, afterward? After his wounds had been dressed.”
“Yes, madame.”
“He could speak? He spoke to you?”
“He sent for me. It was about the little dog. He understood that it was the little dog. He was very weak, but he could tell me his wish that I would bring the little dog to Mademoiselle Lucie. He told his colonel—I think it was his colonel, and he said I should go. Monsieur le Capitaine, mademoiselle’s father, was there also. They said I should come, and I came. I was afraid the little dog would die before I arrived.”
The tears were falling from Lucie’s eyes upon the head of the dog in her lap. “Poor Pom Pom. Dear Pom Pom,” she repeated over and over.
Madame Guerin came and knelt by Lucie. “And I said I did not care for dogs,” she murmured. “If we can but save the life of this one, never will dog have a better home, more care.”
Lucie looked up fiercely. “But, madame, you do not understand. He is mine. Pom Pom is mine. It is I who will care for him. It is because Victor had given him to me that he sends him back. Next to Victor—Oh, yes, he loved him best; I do not deny that, but next to him he loves me.”
Madame arose without another word. She stood for a moment looking down at Lucie and the suffering dog, now lying very quietly. Then she turned to Jean. “When do you return?” she asked.
“To-morrow, madame.”
“I will go with you,” she said, and left the room.