Little Brommard—destined to be the cook of Napoleon—put the coin Lavenne had given him in his pocket, and, thanking the latter, went off to supervise another scullion who was at work on some vegetables, whilst Lavenne, bidding good-bye to Brommard père, took his departure.
He took a side-path that led to the cottage of the chief gardener of Trianon.
That official happened to be in, and Lavenne invited him to put on his hat and to come out for a moment’s conversation.
“Well, Monsieur Lavenne, what can I do for you?” said the man, putting on his coat as he came out, and latching the door behind him.
“You can get a spade and take me to the place where you buried the dog belonging to his Majesty. I see by the report that you were ordered to bury it.”
“You mean Atalanta, monsieur?”
“The same.”
The gardener, without a word, went to the tool-house by the cottage and took out a spade, then, shouldering the spade, he led the way to a clear space amidst some bushes.
“Now,” said Lavenne, “dig me up the remains of the animal. I wish to examine them.”
The gardener did as he was told, and Lavenne, on his knees, made a minute examination of the mouth of the dog. The body of the animal, lying in a light, dry soil, showed no trace of putrefaction, being, so the gardener said, as fresh as when he buried it.