Still looking about, he found one of the coarse, gray sacks, that Frances was accustomed to make.  He took it, opened it, and said to the work girl:  “Put me the iron bar and the cord into this bag, my girl.  It will be easier to carry.”

“Heavens!” cried she, obeying his directions; “you will not go without seeing Agricola, M. Dagobert?  He may perhaps have some good news to tell you.”

“Be satisfied!  I shall wait for my boy.  I need not start before ten o’clock—­so I have time.”

“Alas, M. Dagobert! have you last all hope?”

“On the contrary.  I have good hope—­but in myself.”

So saying, Dagobert twisted the upper end of the sack, for the purpose of closing it, and placed it on the drawers, by the side of his pistols.

“At all events, you will wait for Agricola, M. Dagobert?”

“Yes, if he arrives before ten o’clock.”

“Alas; you have then quite made up your mind?”

“Quite.  And yet, if I were weak enough to believe in bad omens—­”

“Sometimes, M. Dagobert, omens do not deceive one,” said the girl, hoping to induce the soldier to abandon his dangerous resolution.

“Yes,” resumed Dagobert; “old women say so—­and, although I am not an old woman, what I saw just now weighed heavily on my heart.  After all, I may have taken a feeling of anger for a presentiment.”

“What have you seen?”

“I will tell it you, my good girl; it may help to pass the time, which appears long enough.”  Then, interrupting himself, he exclaimed:  “Was it the half hour that just struck?”

“Yes, M. Dagobert; it is half-past eight.”

“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.”