Riquet’s eyes always followed his master closely on these walks. He was afraid to let him out of his sight one instant, because he was not very sharp-scented, and, had he lost his master, could not have tracked him again. His beautiful, loving look was very engaging as he trotted by the side of M. Bergeret with an important air quite pretty to see. The Professor of Latin literature walked slowly or quickly according to the trend of his capricious fancy. As soon as Riquet was a stone’s throw ahead of his master, he turned round and waited for him with his nose in the air, and one of his front paws lifted in an attitude of attention and watchfulness. It did not take much to amuse either of them. Riquet plunged into gardens and shops alike, coming out again as hastily as he had entered. On this particular day he bounded into the coal-seller’s office, to find himself confronted by a huge snow-white pigeon that flapped its wings in the darkness, to his extreme terror. He came as usual to relate his adventure, with eyes and paws and tail, to M. Bergeret, who said jokingly: “Yes, indeed, my poor Riquet, we have had a terrible encounter, and have escaped the claws and beak of a winged monster. That pigeon was an awe-inspiring creature!” And M. Bergeret smiled. Riquet knew that smile, and knew that his master was making fun of him. This was a thing he could not bear. He stopped wagging his tail, and walked with hanging head, hunched-up back, and legs wide apart, as a sign of annoyance. “My poor Riquet,” said M. Bergeret to him again, “that bird, which your ancestors would have eaten alive, alarms you. You are not hungry, as they would have been, and you are not as brave as they were; the refinement of culture has made a coward of you. It is questionable whether civilization does not tend to make men less courageous as well as less fierce. But civilized man, out of respect for his species, affects courage and makes of it an artificial virtue far more beautiful than the natural one. While, as for you, you shamelessly display your fear.” Riquet’s annoyance, to tell the truth, was but slight, and only lasted a few minutes. All was forgiven and forgotten when the man and the dog entered the Josde woods just at the hour when the grass is wet with dew and light mists rise from the hills. M. Bergeret loved the woods, and at sight of a blade of grass would lose himself in boundless reveries. Riquet, too, loved the woods. As he sniffed at the dead leaves his soul was filled with strange delight. In deep meditation, therefore, they followed the pathway leading to the Carrefour des Demoiselles, when they met a horseman returning to the town. It was M. de Terremondre, the county councillor. “Good day, M. Bergeret,” he cried, reining in his horse. “Well! Have you thought over my arguments of yesterday?” He had explained the evening before at Paillot’s the reason why he was against the Jews.