Everyone knows what excitement the approach of the shooting season causes to a certain class of people in Paris. One is perpetually meeting some of them on their way back from the canal where they have been ‘getting their hands in’ by popping at larks and sparrows, dragging a dog after them, and stopping each acquaintance to ask: ‘Do you like quails and partridges?’ ‘Certainly.’ ‘Ah, well, I’ll send you some about the second or third of next month.’ ‘Many thanks.’ ‘By the way I hit five sparrows out of eight shots just now. Not bad, was it?’ ‘First rate indeed!’
Well, towards the end of August, 1830, one of these sportsmen called at No. 109, in the Faubourg St.-Denis, and on being told that Décamps was at home, climbed to the fifth floor, dragging his dog up step by step, and knocking his gun against every corner till he reached the studio of that eminent painter. However, he only found his brother Alexandre, one of those brilliant and original persons whose inherent laziness alone prevented his bringing his great natural gifts to perfection.
He was universally voted a very good fellow, for his easy good nature made him ready to do or give whatever anyone asked. It was not surprising, therefore, that the new comer soon managed to persuade Alexandre that nothing could be more delightful than to attend the opening of the shooting season on the plains of St.-Denis, where, according to general report, there were swarms of quails, clouds of partridges, and troops of hares.
As a result of this visit, Alexandre Décamps ordered a shooting coat from his tailor, a gun from the first gun-maker’s in Paris, and a pair of gaiters from an equally celebrated firm; all of which cost him 660 francs, not to mention the price of his licence.
On August 31 Alexandre discovered that one important item was still wanting to his outfit—a dog. He went at once to a man who had supplied various models to his brother Eugène’s well-known picture of ‘performing dogs,’ and asked if he happened to have any sporting dogs.
The man declared he had the very thing, and going to the kennel promptly whipped off the three-cornered hat and little coat worn by a black and white mongrel whom he hastened to present to his customer as a dog of the purest breed. Alexandre hinted that it was not usual for a pointer to have such sharp-pointed ears, but the dealer replied that ‘Love’ was an English dog, and that it was considered the very best form for English dogs to have pointed ears. As this statement might be true, Alexandre made no further objections, but paid for the dog and took Love home with him.
At five o’clock next morning Alexandre was roused up by his sporting friend, who, scolding him well for not being ready earlier, hurried him off as fast as possible, declaring the whole plain would be shot before they could get there.
It was certainly a curious sight; not a swallow, not even the meanest little sparrow, could rise without a volley of shots after it, and everyone was anxiously on the look-out for any and every sort of bird that could possibly be called game.
Alexandre’s friend was soon bitten by the general fever and threw himself energetically amidst the excited crowd, whilst Alexandre strolled along more calmly, dutifully followed by Love. Now everyone knows that the first duty of any sporting dog is to scour the field and not to count the nails in his master’s boots. This thought naturally occurred to Alexandre, and he accordingly made a sign to Love and said: ‘Seek!’