"Pardon me, monsieur," replied Bahuchet, bowing low to the dog's owner, a man of the people, with square shoulders and a face as rugged as his hands; "I had no intention to injure this pretty spaniel; but he is so handsome, so well trimmed, that I admired him and felt a desire to pat him—that is all!"
"Oh, yes! oh, yes! I've heard that before! They make believe to pat our dogs, and then, when no one is looking, they carry 'em off under their cloaks. Pont-Neuf is always crowded with a pack of pickpockets, sneak thieves, cutpurses!"
"Monsieur! I believe that you are insulting me! Do I look like a sneak thief? I couldn't put your dog under my cloak, because I have none."
"Why did you put your hand on him? You don't look as if you had any too much cash; go and have your elbows patched—that will be better than patting other people's dogs!"
The owner of the spaniel walked away with his animal, and Bahuchet returned with a crestfallen air to Plumard, who had deemed it prudent to stand aloof.
"Did you hear that clown, that clodhopper, that pig?—If I had not held myself in check, I should have gashed his face!"
"You did well to restrain yourself; that man would have made but one mouthful of you!—It's a shot that missed fire, that's all!"
"Yes, let us try to find something better. Bigre! how cold I am!"
"Fichtre! how hungry I am!"
The two comrades walked on, exploring Pont-Neuf with famished eyes. Suddenly Bahuchet stopped and uttered an exclamation of delight.