# A Gentleman From France/Chapter 3

About the middle of August when it was very hot even at the château, and intolerable in the city, Madame, accompanied by Pierre and Marie, set out for Paris. The actress was going to Paris to begin rehearsals with her company for a season in America.
She would gladly have donned a uniform in this, the hour of her country's need, but that she could not do. She could, however, give her services in another way. Few women have earned more money than she, and it should all go to France. Money meant cannon, ammunition, food, and tents for the soldiers. In short, money was almost as essential as ​men. Money she would give without stint. So up to Paris she went in the sweltering heat, with all the enthusiasm of youth.
But it was not a normal France through which they travelled. All was hurry and confusion. The railroads were crowded with troop trains, and the highways were swarming with taxicabs and other motors filled with eager, sweating soldiers. At each load of soldiers Madame waved her hand, and Pierre barked gladly. For they all reminded him of young Jean, whom he never would see again.
Even upon the outskirts of Paris they were obliged to go very slowly, for every vehicle that could carry men or supplies had been pressed into service. All these were hurrying northward, while others were coming back empty, or filled with wounded soldiers.
​Dozens of times the luxurious car of Madame was held up in the gutter while seemingly endless lines of marching men passed. There were infantry and cavalry, artillery and ambulance corps, and these in turn were followed by crowding lowing herds of cattle, and bleating flocks of sheep—the rations on the hoof, following the army.
At one of these exciting waits, a handsome man in a gay uniform mounted on a splendid horse, rode up to Madame's car and drew rein.
"Madame, the great actress," cried the Colonel gaily, "your friend, Colonel Lafleur. Don't you remember?" And he saluted her just as though she had been a general herself.
The actress held out her eloquent hand.
"I have been looking for you all the ​afternoon, Colonel," she said, in her deep rich voice. "You are always in my thoughts."
She loved the Colonel and he loved her, but it was one of those unfortunate love affairs, which could never be realized to the full; for he was only a poor Colonel, without family or money, while she was the famous actress whom the world adored.
"This is my regiment," he said, motioning to the splendid column, eight abreast, which was marching rapidly by. "In five minutes more, Madame, I must follow them. Even now I should be riding at their head. My country calls, but I may stay five minutes at the call of Cupid. Can we not crowd a year into five minutes?" He rode close to the car and, leaning over, took the actress's hand. She did not resist, but returned his pressure ​warmly. "You are a brave man," she said. "I wish I could fight for France."
"It is such as you who inspire us to fight," he returned. "We fight for the women and the children of France."
"Four minutes are already gone," he said, presently, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "What a thief of time love is!"
While they had been talking, Pierre had been watching the soldiers with wary eyes. As the last rank filed by, he barked excitedly.
"Your dog says I must go," observed the Colonel. "He has spoken truly. This is my last moment. Can't you give me something that will go with me through the long march, and even through battles, to death if need be?"
Tears filled the actress's eyes. She ​leaned over and printed a warm kiss upon the soldier's hand. "You may remember that," she said in a low, intense voice.
"Will it mean anything more if I come back?" asked the soldier.
"Probably not," she returned. "You know how it is."
"Yes," he said sadly. "I know."
"I am sorry," she said, "but I am not mistress of my own life. None of us famous people are."
"More's the pity," returned the Colonel. "May I have this for a keepsake?"
He unclasped the bracelet on her wrist.
"Yes, yes," she said joyfully. "The things I can give, I give gladly."
Then looking down the Colonel's eyes fell upon Pierre. He was watching the soldier warily from under his shaggy eyebrows.
​"May I have this, too?" he asked, laying his hand on the dog's head. "He would keep me from being lonesome. He loves you, too. We would be company for each other. We would talk about you on the march, or in camp. I want him very much."
"Pierre! Pierre! He is the dearest thing I have. Pierre, can I give you away?" The Airedale looked up inquiringly, first at his mistress, and then at the Colonel.
"Yes," she said at last. "Take him, and God keep you both."
The Colonel glanced at his watch again. "Time is up," he said. "Good-bye, my lady. If we do not meet again, we have had these five immortal minutes. I shall live them over again many times. Are you coming with me, my little soldier?" ​The Colonel laid his hand upon the dog'a head.
The Airedale had been sniffing at his coat-sleeve inquiringly for several seconds. He was one of the soldier-men, like young Jean. Pierre liked him.
"Are you coming with me?" repeated the Colonel. Now the Colonel was a masterful man. When he spoke, men, dogs, and horses always obeyed.
While the question was an invitation, yet it was also a command. The Airedale lifted his eyes to his mistress. Her eyes were filled with tears.
"Go, Pierre," she said, "and God keep you both."
The Colonel put one hand upon the dog's collar and the other under his belly and lifted him to the pommel of the saddle. He saluted, touched his horse with the ​spur, and they galloped away after the rapidly disappearing regiment.
The last the actress saw of Pierre, he was looking backward at her from under the Colonel's elbow.
He was going to be a soldier with one of the bravest men in France. Perhaps he would like that even better than his mistress's petting and fondling. In some ways he was a man's dog. Now he would be a War Dog.
"Laporte, start up the machine," she said irritably. "What are we waiting here for?"
"Oui, Madame," said Laporte, and they moved slowly on into the heart of Paris and to work—which after all is the best balm for aching hearts.