The princess looked away. "And may I ask after
the health of the dog?"
"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog;
he will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries
on dumb creatures?"
"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."
"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.
"My hand?"
"Yes; did you not injure it?"
"O!" He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection.
"That was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand
it was."
"You are very modest. I should have made much of it."
He could not translate this; so he said: "There was nothing
injured but my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction."
She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.
"I shall keep the hat, however," he said, "as a souvenir."
"Souvenirs, Monsieur," she replied carelessly, "and old age are
synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you
seen the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of
showing it to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He
has a Leonardo, a Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt.
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