"They want me to be lonely," he thought. "All that the chiefs consider is the soldier--not the man--even the companionship of my dog is denied me. What do they think I am going to do out there in the long eastern evenings?" He reflected. "What does the world expect an uncompanioned wanderer to do?" There are many things and the less thought about them, the better. "A letter for Monsieur le Capitaine." Brunet returned with a note which he presented stiffly, and Pitchouné, who chose in his little brain to imagine Brunet an intruder, sprang from the chair like lightning, rushed at the servant, seized the leg of his pantaloons and began to worry them, growling, Brunet regarding him with adoration. Sabron had not thought aloud the last words of the telegram, which he had used to light his cigarette. "... Nor will it be necessary to take a personal servant. The indigenes are capable _ordonnances_." As he took the letter from Brunet's salver he said curtly: "I am ordered to Algiers and I shall not take horses nor Pitchouné." The dog, at the mention of his name, set Brunet's leg free and stood quiet, his head lifted. "Nor you either, _mon_ brave Brunet." Sabron put his hand on his servant's shoulder, the first familiarity he had ever shown a man who served him with devotion, and who would have given his life to save his master's. "Those," said the officer curtly, "are the orders from headquarters, and the least said about them the better." The ruddy cheek of the servant turned pale. He mechanically touched his forehead. "_Bien, mon Capitaine_," he murmured, with a little catch in his voice. He stood at attention, then wheeled and without being dismissed, stalked out of the room. Pitchouné did not follow. He remained immovable like a little dog cut from bronze; he understood--who shall say--how much of the conversation? Sabron threw away his cigarette, then read his letter by the mantelpiece, leaning his arm upon it. He read slowly. He had broken the seal slowly. It was the first letter he had ever seen in this handwriting. It was written in French and ran thus: "Monsieur:--My aunt wishes me to ask you if you will come to us for a little musicale to-morrow afternoon. We hope you will be free, and _I_ hope," she added, "that you will bring Pitchouné. Not that I think he will care for the music, but afterward perhaps he will run with us as we walk to the gate. My aunt wishes me to say that she has learned from the colonel that you have been ordered to Algiers. In this way she says that we shall have an opportunity of wishing you bon voyage, and I say I hope Pitchouné will be a comfort to you." The letter ended in the usual formal French fashion. Sabron, turning the letter and rereading it, found that it completed the work that had been going on in his lonely heart. He stood long, musing.