“Still an hour and a half,” said Dagobert, in a hollow voice.  “This,” he added, “is what I saw.  As I came along the street, my notice was attracted by a large red placard, at the head of which was a black panther devouring a white horse.  That sight gave me a turn, for you must know, my good girl, that a black panther destroyed a poor old white horse that I had, Spoil-sport’s companion, whose name was Jovial.”

At the sound of this name, once so familiar, Spoil-sport, who was crouching at the workwoman’s feet, raised his head hastily, and looked at Dagobert.

“You see that beasts have memory—­he recollects,” said the soldier, sighing himself at the remembrance.  Then, addressing his dog he added:  “Dost remember Jovial?”

On hearing this name a second time pronounced by his master, in a voice of emotion, Spoil-sport gave a low whine, as if to indicate that he had not forgotten his old travelling companion.

“It was, indeed, a melancholy incident, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “to find upon this placard a panther devouring a horse.”

“That is nothing to what’s to come; you shall hear the rest.  I drew near the bill, and read in it, that one Morok, just arrived from Germany, is about to exhibit in a theatre different wild beasts that he tamed, among others a splendid lion, a tiger, and a black Java panther named Death.”

“What an awful name!” said the hearer.

“You will think it more awful, my child, when I tell you, that this is the very panther which strangled my horse at Leipsic, four months ago.”

“Good Heaven! you are right, M. Dagobert,” said the girl, “it is awful.”

“Wait a little,” said Dagobert, whose countenance was growing more and more gloomy, “that is not all.  It was by means of this very Morok, the owner of the panther, that I and my poor children were imprisoned in Leipsic.”

“And this wicked man is in Paris, and wishes you evil?” said Mother Bunch.  “Oh! you are right, M. Dagobert; you must take care of yourself; it is a bad omen.”

“For him, if I catch him,” said Dagobert, in a hollow tone.  “We have old accounts to settle.”

“M.  Dagobert,” cried Mother Bunch, listening; “some one is running up the stairs.  It is Agricola’s footsteps.  I am sure he has good news.”

“That will just do,” said the soldier, hastily, without answering.  “Agricola is a smith.  He will be able to find me the iron hook.”

A few moments after, Agricola entered the room; but, alas! the sempstress perceived at the first glance, in the dejected countenance of the workman, the ruin of her cherished hopes.

“Well!” said Dagobert to his son, in a tone which clearly announced the little faith he attached to the steps taken by Agricola; “well, what news?”

“Father, it is enough to drive one mad—­to make one dash one’s brains out against the wall!” cried the smith in a rage.