“That your dog had the gift of divining at once the sentiments with which a person regarded his master; and that, as a result of that instinct, he greeted your enemies far from cordially, that he growled and barked at people whom you had reason to distrust; while, on the contrary, he showed much affection for those who were disposed to feel a—a sincere affection for you.”
Honorine almost stammered in her utterance of these last words.
Paul fixed his eyes on the young woman’s sweet and sympathetic features, and his brow, ordinarily clouded, seemed to clear; one would have said that for the first time during a long period his heart beat fast under the impulse of a pleasurable sensation.
“It is true, madame,” he said after a moment’s silence, “that my dog has often afforded proofs of that peculiar instinct; but had I not the right to doubt the accuracy of his second sight in this instance? How could I suppose that you could entertain the slightest affection for me? I have done nothing to deserve it.”
“You forget, monsieur, that you have twice established a claim to our gratitude—on the two evenings of the cow and the storm. What would have become of us but for you?”
“Anyone would have done as much as I did.”
“I see, monsieur, that you have made up your mind that you will see only evil-minded, false, treacherous people in all who surround you.”
“Oh! madame!”
“But your efforts are vain; your dog, who knows what to believe, will always look upon us as his friends. Look; see how he gazes at me; he seems to express approval of my words; if he continues to show such friendliness to me, you will distrust him too, will you not, monsieur?”
“Ah! madame, far from it; on the contrary, I shall think that I have at last found what I believed it to be impossible to find—a true friend!”