Just then there was a hurried call for Boots, and he left me wondering what possible interest Michel Seguin could have in me. I had been rude to him on the boat, and had not shown myself very friendly since. Probably any special attention he might pay me was prompted by a wish to learn something of Nicol Patoff. But forewarned was forearmed, and Nicol, who undoubtedly was under some ban and in hiding, was safe so far as I was concerned.
“I’ll take the good the gods provide,” I thought, as I unpacked my trunk in my spacious, airy room, and then went down to dinner, where I found several tourists, all eagerly discussing what they had seen and what they expected to see.
CHAPTER III.
THE DOG CHANCE.
As the sun was not down—for we were in the midst of the long, northern days, when darkness and daylight almost kiss each other in a parting embrace—I suggested that we take a little stroll and look at St. Isaac’s and other points of interest. As we were leaving the hotel, we met the gendarme, Michel, who, I found, came often to the hotel, inquiring after passports and any newcomers, or those who had changed their quarters. A civil bow was all I awarded him, as I hurried outside, where I found my friends crowded around a huge mastiff, sitting upon his haunches, as if waiting for some one—his master, probably. He was of a species which, in America, we call a Russian collie, and esteem for their fidelity and gentleness. He was the handsomest dog I had ever seen, with his fine, intelligent face, and long, silky mane, and, as I was fond of animals of all kinds, I stooped to caress him, while he beat his bushy tail in token of appreciation and good will.
“You are a beauty,” I said. “I wonder whose dog you are, and what is your name?”
“Chance, and he belongs to me,” came in quick response, which made the dog start up, while I turned to meet the drooping eyes of the gendarme fixed on me with a quizzical expression.
“Chance,” I repeated, still keeping my hand buried in the soft wool of the animal, who was stamping his feet and shaking his head, as if ready for action of some kind, if he only knew what it was. “Chance,” I said, again. “It is a strange name for a Russian dog. I had a little poodle, years ago, which I called Chance. I’ve never heard the name since.”
“No, it is not common; and it came to him from a friend,” the man replied. “He is a noble fellow. His grandmother was from the royal kennels, so, you see, he has kingly blood in him. I was offered a thousand dollars for him by one of your countrymen, and would not take it. He is young, but is already my factotum on whom I depend.”
“Do you mean he is like a bloodhound, whom you put on the track of the poor wretches you are hired to run down?” I asked, thinking of Nicol Patoff, and recoiling from the dog, who put up his big paw, as if to shake my hand, and thus conciliate me.
The gendarme laughed, and replied: “I have little need of a dog, except in case of murder. If the czar were killed, for instance, and the assassin were hiding, I might call in Chance’s help; and he would find him, too, if he had ever seen him before, or anything belonging to him. You are not afraid of him?”