CHAPTER XIV.

Unprescient of the perils that awaited him, absorbed in the sense of
existing discomfort, cold, and hunger, Fox lifted his mournful visage
from his master's dressing-gown, in which he had encoiled his shivering
frame, on the entrance of De Breze and the concierge of the house in
which Lemercier had his apartment. Recognising the Vicomte as one of his
master's acquaintances, he checked the first impulse that prompted him to
essay a feeble bark, and permitted himself, with a petulant whine, to be
extracted from his covering, and held in the arms of the murderous
visitor.

"_Dieu des dieux_!" ejaculated De Breze, "how light the poor beast has
become!" Here he pinched the sides and thighs of the victim. "Still,"
he said, "there is some flesh yet on these bones. You may grill the
paws, _fricassee_ the shoulders, and roast the rest. The _rognons_ and
the head accept for yourself as a perquisite." Here he transferred Fox
to the arms of the concierge, adding, "_Vite au besogne, mon ami_."

"Yes, Monsieur. I must be quick about it while my wife is absent. She
has a _faiblesse_ for the brute. He must be on the spit before she
returns."

"Be it so; and on the table in an hour--five o'clock precisely--I am
famished."

The concierge disappeared with Fox. De Breze then amused himself by
searching into Frederic's cupboards and buffets, from which he produced a