"What’s that?" exclaimed Robineau.
"It’s Isaure’s dog," said the shepherd; "he’s a big fellow, I tell you! and I’ll bet no two men could handle him! He’s a—wait—he’s a dog of some kind of a land—what do you call it?"
"Do you mean Newfoundland?"
"Yes, monsieur, Newfoundland, that’s it."
"And how does it happen that this girl has a dog of that breed, which is so rare in this country?"
"Oh! monsieur, that’s another one of those mysterious things that proves that there’s something crooked. Isaure’s had this big dog since André’s widow’s death; somebody asked her where she got him, and she said a traveller made her a present of him because she took him in and gave him something to eat. I ask you if it’s likely that a traveller would deprive himself of his trusty companion?"
"No, it isn’t conceivable," said Robineau, "and I begin to agree with the shepherd, that this young girl—It’s a most extraordinary thing."
"Do you know what the dog’s name is?" Edouard asked the shepherd.
"Yes, monsieur, he goes out with his mistress sometimes, and we hear her calling him ‘Vaillant’ here and ‘Vaillant’ there."
Edouard walked to the door and tapped softly, calling Vaillant. The dog at once replied, but his bark was less loud; he seemed to ask what was wanted rather than to threaten the strangers.