were seven or eight hunters and as many servants encouraging him by their
shouts. The Baron's pack of hounds, of great renown in the country, was
composed of about forty dogs, all branded upon their right thighs with
the Bergenheim coat-of-arms. From time immemorial, the chateau's dogs
had been branded thus with their master's crest, and Christian, who was a
great stickler for old customs, had taken care not to drop this one.
This feudal sign had probably acted upon the morals of the pack, for it
was impossible to find, within twenty leagues, a collection of more
snarly terriers, dissolute hounds, ugly bloodhounds, or more quarrelsome
greyhounds. They were perfect hunters, but it seemed as if, on account
of their being dogs of quality, all vices were permitted them.

In the midst of this horde, without respect for law or order, the
unfortunate Constance had found herself after crossing the ante-chamber,
vestibule, and outside steps, still pursued by the sounds from
Christian's huge horn. An honest merchant surprised at the turn of the
road by a band of robbers would not have been greeted any better than the
poodle was at the moment she darted into the yard. It may have been that
the quarrel between the Bergenheims and Corandeuils had reached the
canine species; it may have been at the instigation of the footmen, who
all cordially detested the beast--the sad fact remains that she was
pounced upon in a moment as if she were a deer, snatched, turned topsy-
turvy, rolled, kicked about, and bitten by the forty four-legged
brigands, who each seemed determined to carry away as a trophy some
portion of her cafe-au-lait colored blanket.

The person who took the most delight in this deplorable spectacle was
Pere Rousselet. He actually clapped his hands together behind his back,
spread his legs apart in the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, while
his coat-skirts almost touched the ground, giving him the look of a