"I am ten," she replied, with a little sigh and a blush. "But I may grow still, may I not?" she asked timidly, looking up into my face so pathetically, that I had hardly sufficient gravity to answer, "Yes, of course; you will doubtless grow for a long time yet."
"Ah! that is exactly what Jean says," she exclaimed gaily; then added in a lower voice, "Jean says he likes little people best; but, you see, he may say that because he likes me."
I answered nothing to this; and presently she roused herself from a little reverie, and said, "Now we shall dance for you, because it gets late, and I must go home."
"If you like to remain here all night," I said, "the wife of the concierge will let you sleep in a little [{265}] room off theirs, down stairs; and when you have had some breakfast, you can then return."
"No, no," she repeated sharply; "I will not sleep here; I go home to Jean."
"Will Emile be glad to see you?"
"That depends; if he is cross, he will beat me for staying so long; but it does not matter; I wished to stay, and I liked my dinner, and this warm fire" (she looked wistfully at it). "Monsieur is very good. Come, Mouton, my friend; wake yourself up."
The dog rose, shook himself, and patiently allowed himself to be dressed once more. He took an unfair advantage of his mistress, however, when she knelt down to put on his shoes, and licked her face. "Ah, cochon, how often must I box your ears for that trick!" she said, as she gave him a tap on the side of his head, for the liberty. "Come now, walk along." The dog paced soberly toward the door on his hind-legs.—"That is the ancien régime," she explained to me.— "Now, Mouton, show us how people walk at the present day." The dog stopped, and at once imitated the short, mincing step of a Parisian belle, shaking his hoop from side to side in most ludicrous fashion; and as he reached his mistress, he dropped a little awkward courtesy.
"That is well," she said. "Now sing for us like Madame G——," naming a famous opera-singer, whose fame was then at its height, and she laid a light piece of music-paper across his paws. The dog looked closely down on the paper for an instant, licked his lips, looked round at an imaginary audience, and then throwing back his head, and fixing his black eyes on the ceiling, he uttered a howl so shrill and piercing that I stopped my ears; he then ceased for an instant, looked at his music attentively, then at his audience, and again uttered that ear-piercing howl. "That is enough," said Poucette; "bow to the company." The dog rose and sank with the grace almost of the prima donna herself.
"Now, Mouton, we are going to dance;" and taking the animal by its paw, she put the other arm round it, and the two whirled round in a waltz, keeping admirable time to a tune which Poucette whistled. "Now read a book, and rest yourself whilst I dance;" and again the piece of music was laid on Mouton's paws, and he bent his eyes on it, apparently with the most devoted attention, whilst Poucette slipped off her heavy sabots, and with naked feet thrust into a pair of old satin slippers, which she produced from some pocket in her dress, she executed a sort of fancy dance, half Cachuca, half Bolero, throwing herself into pretty, graceful attitudes, with a step as light as a fairy's; then, as she approached Mouton in the figure, she lifted the music, and taking him by one paw, she led him forward to the front of my chair on the points of her toes, the two courtesying nearly to the ground, when Mouton affectionately kissed his mistress on the cheek.