Grimshaw winced, for he had never had success with animals. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he stooped and caressed the dog's head.
"A good fellow," he said in French to the goatherd.
The goatherd looked at him curiously. "Not always," he answered. "He is an unpleasant beast with most strangers. For you, he seems to have taken a fancy…. What have you got there—any two-bladed knives?"
Grimshaw started and recovered himself with: "Knives. Yes. All sorts."
The goatherd fingered his collection, trying the blades on his broad thumb.
"You come from France," he said.
Grimshaw nodded. "From Lyons."
"I thought so. You speak French like a gentleman."
Grimshaw shrugged. "That is usual in Lyons."
The peasant paid for the knife he fancied, placing two francs in the poet's palm. Then he whistled to the dog and set off after his flock. But the dog, whining and trembling, followed Grimshaw, and would not be shaken off until Grimshaw had pelted him with small stones. I think the poet was strangely flattered by this encounter. He passed through Salvan with his head in the air, challenging recognition. But there was no recognition. The guide who had said "The tall monsieur will not arrive" now greeted him with a fraternal: "How is trade?"