On hearing this name a second time pronounced by his master, in a voice of emotion, Spoil-sport gave a low whine, as if to indicate that he had not forgotten his old travelling companion.
“It was, indeed, a melancholy incident, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “to find upon this placard a panther devouring a horse.”
“That is nothing to what’s to come; you shall hear the rest. I drew near the bill, and read in it, that one Morok, just arrived from Germany, is about to exhibit in a theatre different wild beasts that he tamed, among others a splendid lion, a tiger, and a black Java panther named Death.”
“What an awful name!” said the hearer.
“You will think it more awful, my child, when I tell you, that this is the very panther which strangled my horse at Leipsic, four months ago.”
“Good Heaven! you are right, M. Dagobert,” said the girl, “it is awful.”
“Wait a little,” said Dagobert, whose countenance was growing more and more gloomy, “that is not all. It was by means of this very Morok, the owner of the panther, that I and my poor children were imprisoned in Leipsic.”
“And this wicked man is in Paris, and wishes you evil?” said Mother Bunch. “Oh! you are right, M. Dagobert; you must take care of yourself; it is a bad omen.”
“For him, if I catch him,” said Dagobert, in a hollow tone. “We have old accounts to settle.”
“M. Dagobert,” cried Mother Bunch, listening; “some one is running up the stairs. It is Agricola’s footsteps. I am sure he has good news.”