s of every
description. This very wood of Vincennes near at hand, now the glory
of picnickers, was for centuries the home and stronghold of the robber
and professional assassin. And it is a rash man at this day who would
voluntarily risk his purse and life by being found alone in the
neighborhood after nightfall.

Fouchette's territory lay chiefly in the streets and suburbs of
Charenton. To cover it she was compelled to get out before daylight.
If she had good luck and brought in anything valuable she got an
extra allowance of soup, sometimes with a scrap of meat, to be
invariably divided between her and Tartar, or a small glass of red
wine; if her find was poor her fare was reduced, and instead of food
she often received blows.

These blows, however, were never administered in the sight of the dog,
Tartar,--only once, when the savage animal resented this treatment of
his side partner by burying his teeth in Mother Podvin's arm.

Little Fouchette remembered this friendly intervention by bringing
home any choice bits of meat found in the house garbage during her
morning tour. Mother Podvin remembered it by thereafter thumping
Fouchette out of sight of her canine friend and protector. The
infuriated woman would have slaughtered the offending spaniel on the
spot, only Tartar was of infinite service to her husband in his
business. She dared not, so she took it out on Fouchette.

Monsieur Podvin's business was not confined wholly to drinking, though
it was perhaps natural that Fouchette should have reached that
conclusion, since she had seen him in no other occupation. Monsieur
Podvin, like many others of the mysterious inhabitants of the
barriers, worked nights. Not regularly, but as occasion invited him or
necessity drove him. On such occasions Tartar was brought forth from
the cellar, where he reposed peacefully by the side of his little
protegee, and accompanied his master. As Tartar was held in strict
confinement during the day, he was invariably delighted when the call
of duty gave him this outing. And as he returned at all sorts of hours
in the early morning, his frail partner and bedfellow never felt that
it was necessary to sit up for him. Nevertheless, Fouchette was quite
nervous, and sometimes sleepless, down there among the wine-bottles in
the dark, on her pallet of straw, when she awoke to find her hairy
protector missing; though, usually, she knew of his absence only by
his return, when he licked her face