"Go, my friend, with Brunet. Go, mon vieux, go," he commanded sternly, and the little dog, trained to obedience as a soldier's dog should be, trotted reluctantly at the heels of the ordonnance, and the soldier threw his leg over the saddle and rode away. He rode regardless of anything but the fact that he was going. 

 CHAPTER VIII HOMESICK 

 Pitchouné was a soldier's dog, born in a stable, of a mother who had been dear to the canteen. Michette had been une vrai vivandière, a real daughter of the regiment. 

 Pitchouné was a worthy son. He adored the drums and trumpets. He adored the fife. He adored the drills which he was accustomed to watch from a respectable distance. He liked Brunet, and the word had not yet been discovered which would express how he felt toward Monsieur le Capitaine, his master. His muscular little form expressed it in every fiber. His brown eyes looked it until their pathos might have melted a heart of iron. 

 There was nothing picturesque to Pitchouné in the Château d'Esclignac or in the charming room to which he was brought. The little dog took a flying tour around it, over sofas and chairs, landing on the window-seat, where he crouched. He was not wicked, but he was perfectly miserable, and the lovely wiles of Julia Redmond and her endearments left him unmoved. He refused meat and drink, was indifferent to the views from the window, to the beautiful view of King René's castle, to the tantalizing cat sunning herself against the wall. He flew about like mad, leaving destruction in his wake, tugged at the leash when they took him out for exercise. In short, Pitchouné was a homesick, lovesick little dog, and thereby endeared himself more than ever to his new mistress. She tied a ribbon around his neck, which he promptly chewed and scratched off. She tried to feed him with her own fair hands; he held his head high, looked bored and grew thin in the flanks. 

 "I think Captain de Sabron's little dog is going to die, ma tante," she told her aunt. 

 "Fiddlesticks, my dear Julia! Keep him tied up until he is accustomed to the place. It won't hurt him to fast; he will eat when he is hungry. I have a note from Robert. He has not gone to Monte Carlo." 

 "Ah!" breathed Miss Redmond indifferently. 

 She slowly went over to her piano and played a few measures of music that were a torture to Pitchouné, who found these ladylike performances in strong 

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