“‘What? Munito a humbug? You astound me!’
“‘Yes, sir; and were Munito here, I should tell him so to his face. Impostors and dogs of real talents should not be confounded. Munito did not know B from a bull’s foot, while Bianca has learned by rule. What she knows, she knows thoroughly.’
“‘Is it possible Munito knew nothing, and merely concerted with his master to appear learned?’
“‘You have hit the nail on the head.’
“‘Do you mean to tell me there are pseudo savants among dogs? I thought men had a monopoly of that plague.’
“‘Dogs don’t escape it.’
“‘Good heavens! can a fellow trust neither man nor dog? Do enter into particulars; and since I am doomed, it seems, to lose one more illusion, let the loss, at least, turn to the profit of my knowledge.’
“‘I, too, was a dupe to Munito’s merits; but one fine morning the scales fell from my eyes, and I discovered the truth. Like my Bianca—forgive me the odious comparison, dear!—Munito stood in the center of a circle formed of bits of pasteboard bearing letters, or figures, or colors. I grant you, Munito had a good deal of brains; he was no fool, I admit, and his ear was exquisitely delicate. Had he been trained by a good method, he would have attained high rank; but his master, who was an Italian, preferred turning his delicacy of hearing to profit, rather than bringing him up by rule.’
“‘Ah! Munito was no classic. But, pray tell me, did he then belong to the romantic school?’
“‘Not a bit more than he belonged to the classical school. All his talents lay in obeying his master’s signals. Munito walked gravely around the table, assuming the airs of a member of the French academy; but incapable as he was of reading or distinguishing colors, he never stopped to pick up the bit of pasteboard except when his master gave him the signal. Munito’s master stood with his hand in his breeches pocket. He would snap a finger nail or a tooth pick, and this click, though so slight as to escape the attention of the spectators, was caught by the dog’s ear, and who instantly received the reward of his criminal comedy. He was given a bonbon. Do you know of what that so-called bonbon was made? ’Twas nothing but bread and meat hashed fine and rolled in the shape of a ball; but there was no more sugar in it than there is in a black draught. Such cheating really deserves the brand of history. If you think I speak harshly of Munito, my excuse is, he is dead. We owe nothing but truth to dead dogs as well as dead men.’”