And the two frightened women examined the foot tracks, talking, and supposing all sorts of things.

“See, they went that way!  They stepped on the wall, they jumped into the garden!”

And they became apprehensive for the future.  How could they sleep in peace now!

The news of the theft spread.  The neighbor came, making examinations and discussing the matter in their turn, while the two women explained to each newcomer what they had observed and their opinion.

A farmer who lived near said to them: 

“You ought to have a dog.”

That is true, they ought to have a dog, if it were only to give the alarm.  Not a big dog.  Heavens! what would they do with a big dog?  He would eat their heads off.  But a little dog (in Normandy they say “quin"), a little puppy who would bark.

As soon as everyone had left, Mme. Lefevre discussed this idea of a dog for some time.  On reflection she made a thousand objections, terrified at the idea of a bowl full of soup, for she belonged to that race of parsimonious country women who always carry centimes in their pocket to give alms in public to beggars on the road and to put in the Sunday collection plate.

Rose, who loved animals, gave her opinion and defended it shrewdly.  So it was decided that they should have a dog, a very small dog.

They began to look for one, but could find nothing but big dogs, who would devour enough soup to make one shudder.  The grocer of Rolleville had one, a tiny one, but he demanded two francs to cover the cost of sending it.  Mme. Lefevre declared that she would feed a “quin,” but would not buy one.

The baker, who knew all that occurred, brought in his wagon one morning a strange little yellow animal, almost without paws, with the body of a crocodile, the head of a fox, and a curly tail—­a true cockade, as big as all the rest of him.  Mme. Lefevre thought this common cur that cost nothing was very handsome.  Rose hugged it and asked what its name was.

“Pierrot,” replied the baker.

The dog was installed in an old soap box and they gave it some water which it drank.  They then offered it a piece of bread.  He ate it.  Mme. Lefevre, uneasy, had an idea.

“When he is thoroughly accustomed to the house we can let him run.  He can find something to eat, roaming about the country.”

They let him run, in fact, which did not prevent him from being famished.  Also he never barked except to beg for food, and then he barked furiously.

Anyone might come into the garden, and Pierrot would run up and fawn on each one in turn and not utter a bark.

Mme. Lefevre, however, had become accustomed to the animal.  She even went so far as to like it and to give it from time to time pieces of bread soaked in the gravy on her plate.

But she had not once thought of the dog tax, and when they came to collect eight francs—­eight francs, madame—­for this puppy who never even barked, she almost fainted from the shock.