“He is two years and a little bit,” wept Célestin.
“Ah, then be assured, mademoiselle, he is safe; cats never attack children of that age.”
Toto made horrible faces at his companion.
“He is not a child, monsieur,” murmured Dodor’s mistress—“I often wish that he were; he is my lark, and Mme. Liard’s cat may kill him.”
Gaillard’s eyes became filled with tears; a moment more, and he might have allowed himself the pleasure of weeping.
“Did you lock your door?” asked Toto.
“Why, yes, I did!” cried Célestin, brightening through her tears and putting her hand into the back pocket of her dress; “and the key—I have it. Oh, how relieved I feel! Still, I ought not to have forgotten him; he was a treasure given me by the good God to keep. Ah, monsieur,” she said, turning to Gaillard, “you do not know how I love Dodor.”
Gaillard’s lachrymal works again began to threaten.
“Here we are,” said Toto, and the train drew up at Montmorency, with the trees waving in the wind.
They came along the white road leading to the little town, a boy hired for half a franc carrying the basket, Gaillard threatening him with untold terrors if he dropped it and herding him with his crook-handled stick.