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 varied and full of interest, and his mistress and her servants petted him so freely that in a day or two the stump of a tail was wagging away just as it had done at the Hotel Bellevue.

There was no part of the château that was too good for Pierre, as the actress at once rechristened him—not even her own boudoir.

"Pierre!" she would cry, clapping her hands together the first thing in the morning when she awoke. The Airedale, that was sleeping on a beautiful moquette rug at the foot of the bed, or sometimes even on the bed itself, would scramble up to her face. Then there would be a real rough-and-tumble love feast.

How scandalized the vast audience in Drury Lane, or Broadway would have been to see her hugging, kissing, and