Free The Red Collar by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Adriana Hunter Page A

judged at a court-martial without producing the dog. It was all in the policemen’s statement, and his own report of his investigation would complement that. The truth was far more stupid. He wanted to see the dog. He took a personal interest in what happened to him. This thought made him smile, but he still didn’t turn back.
    The house Dujeux had pointed out was a one-story cottage shoehorned between two buildings. It was a vestige of what had once been a neighborhood of simple hovels, when the town wasn’t much more than a village made up of a row of little single-story houses. There was a stone frame around the door. Clumsily engraved on the lintel and now nearly worn away was the date 1778.
    Lantier rapped the bronze knocker, which was shaped like a hand. A woman’s voice called from inside straightaway, telling him to come in. He stepped into a dark hallway that opened onto a tiny living room. The mustiness of rotting carpets mingled with a smell of cold cooking fat encrusted in the curtains and the fabric covering the armchairs. In this poky place, the height of summer was merely a digression, soon forgotten. In normal weather, in other words all year round, the stale air would never be replaced. It was doubtful whether the windows still opened.
    There was so much furniture it was only just possible to move. An oval pedestal table stood in the center of the room. Between this and the marble fireplace with its cracked mantelpiece, they’d managed to squeeze an overly large sofa. Wilhelm was lying there on a sheet that had been hastily thrown over it to protect the embroidery.
    Against that pale pink background he really did look in bad shape. In the bright light on the square Lantier hadn’t fully assessed how thin the animal was. His ribs stood out, his stomach was hollow, and he made a whistling sound from deep inside with every breath. His dull, worn coat left his scars plain to see. He blinked slowly, exhausted, and didn’t even move his head when the major came over to pet him.
    â€œLook at the state he’s got himself into! Poor creature . . . ” said an old woman, holding onto the furniture as she came over. She was wearing a wig which she didn’t bother to secure so it slid over to one side like a beret.
    â€œI’ve fed him every night. Other neighbors took him water to drink. But with this heat, barking like that nonstop, it’s killed him.”
    Lantier nodded. He sat on the edge of the sofa and stroked the dog’s neck as he had out on the square. Wilhelm closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed.
    â€œYou’re the veterinarian then, are you? Mister Paul must have called you. He said he would.”
    â€œNo. I’m not a veterinarian, unfortunately.”
    He was afraid she would ask what he was doing there but she was heading back to the kitchen, carrying on with her previous train of thought: “Mind you, he doesn’t need a veterinarian. We all know what the poor creature needs. Some shade, some food and some water. That’s all.”
    â€œAre you going to keep him here?”
    â€œSo long as he wants to stay, yes. But when he’s better I’ll bet he’ll go and howl outside the prison again, if they haven’t freed his master.”
    She was coming back into the room carrying a sort of pitcher in cracked enamel.
    â€œThose military bastards!” she grumbled.
    Lantier gave a start. Was she speaking to him? How should he reply? When he saw her at closer quarters, though, he understood. She was holding onto the furniture to guide her because she was almost blind. One of her eyes was veiled by a whitish cloud, and the other peered permanently upwards. She definitely wouldn’t have noticed his uniform.
    â€œDo you know his master?” he asked.
    â€œEveryone knows him. He’s a local boy.”
    â€œWhat’s he done wrong?”
    Lantier was fascinated to find someone who didn’t know who he