The description was too accurate for the Children to deceive themselves, and that afternoon Juliette carried the dog to a magnificent house which was nothing less than the residence of the comtesse de Grand Ecusson.
She was left standing in a noble hall while a flunkey bore the dog away. Then another flunkey bade her follow him upstairs; and in a salon which was finer than anything that Juliette had ever met with outside the pages of a novel, the Countess was reclining on a couch with the poodle in her arms.
"I am so grateful to you for the recovery of my darling," said the great lady; "my distress has been insupportable. Ah, naughty, naughty Racine!" She made a pretence of chastising the poodle on the nose.
"I can understand it, madame," said Juliette, much embarrassed.
"Where did you find him? And has he been well fed, well taken care of?
I hope he has not been sleeping in a draught?"
"Oh, indeed, madame, he has been nourished like a beloved child.
Doubtless, not so delicately as with madame, but—"
"It was most kind of you," said the lady. "I count myself blessed that my little Racine fell into such good hands. Now as to the reward, what sum would you think sufficient?"
Juliette looked shy. "I thank you, madame, but we could not accept anything," she faltered.
"What?" exclaimed the Countess, raising her eyebrows in surprise, "you cannot accept anything? How is that?"
"Well," said Juliette, "it would be base to accept money for a simple act of honesty. It is true that we did not wish to part with the dog— we had grown to love him—but, as to our receiving payment for giving him up, that is impossible."