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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_."