“I dare not; he would be picked up himself. Dogs are getting very valuable: they sell for 50 francs apiece. Come, De Breze, where are we to dine?”
“I and Savarin can dine at the London Tavern upon rat pate or jugged cat. But it would be impertinence to invite a satrap like yourself who has a whole dog in his larder—a dish of 50 francs—a dish for a king. Adieu, my dear Frederic. Allons, Savarin.”
“I feasted you on better meats than dog when I could afford it,” said Frederic, plaintively; “and the first time you invite me you retract the invitation. Be it so. Bon appetit.”
“Bah!” said De Breze, catching Frederic’s arm as he turned to depart. “Of course I was but jesting. Only another day, when my pockets will be empty, do think what an excellent thing a roasted dog is, and make up your mind while Fox has still some little flesh on his bones.”
“Flesh!” said Savarin, detaining them. “Look! See how right Voltaire was in saying, ‘Amusement is the first necessity of civilised man.’ Paris can do without bread Paris still retains Polichinello.”
He pointed to the puppet-show, round which a crowd, not of children alone, but of men-middle-aged and old-were collected; while sous were dropped into the tin handed round by a squalid boy.
“And, mon ami,” whispered De Breze to Lemercier, with the voice of a tempting fiend, “observe how Punch is without his dog.”
It was true. The dog was gone,—its place supplied by a melancholy emaciated cat.
Frederic crawled towards the squalid boy. “What has become of Punch’s dog?”
“We ate him last Sunday. Next Sunday we shall have the cat in a pie,” said the urchin, with a sensual smack of the lips.