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."

"Yes, Monsieur. I must be quick about it while my wife is absent.
She has a faiblesse for the brute. He must be on the spit before she
returns."

"Be it so; and on the table in an hour--five o'clock precisely--I am
famished."

The concierge disappeared with Fox. De Breze then amused himself by
searching into Frederic's cupboards and buffets, from which he produced
a cloth and utensils necessary for the repast. These he arranged with
great neatness, and awaited in patience the moment of participation in
the feast.

The hour of five had struck before Savarin and Frederio entered the
salon; and at their sight De Breze dashed to the staircase and called
out to the concierge to serve the dinner.

Frederic, though unconscious of the Thyestean nature of the banquet,
still looked round for the dog; and, not perceiving him, began to call
out, "Fox! Fox! where hast thou hidden thyself?"

"Tranquillise yourself," said De Breze. "Do not suppose that I have
not...."

NOTE BY THE AUTHOR'S SON.--[See also Prefatory Note]--The hand that
wrote thus far has left unwritten the last scene of the tragedy of poor
Fox. In the deep where Prospero has dropped his wand are now irrevocably
buried the humour and the pathos of this cynophagous banquet. One
detail of it, however, which the author imparted to his son, may here
be faintly indicated. Let the sympathising reader recognise all that is
dramatic in the conflict between hunger and affection; let him recall
to mind the lachrymose loving-kindness of his own post-prandial emotions
after blissfully breaking some fast, less mercilessly prolonged, we will
hope, than that of these besieged banqueters, and then, though unaided
by the fancy which conceived so quaint a situation, he may perhaps
imagine what tearful tenderness would fill the eyes of the kind-hearted
Frederic, as they contemplate the well-picked bones of his sacrificed
favourite on the plate before him; which he pushes away, sighing, "Ah,
poor Fox! how he would have enjoyed those bones!"

The chapt