me with you, and from our two miseries we 
may perhaps make a kind of happiness.” 
“What becomes of dogs?” once said Nestor 
Roqueplan in an immortal pamphlet which he 
has doubtless forgotten and which I, and pos-
sibly Sainte-Beuve still remember to-day. 
“Where do dogs go?” do you say, O men of 
little observation? They go about their busi-
ness. 
A business appointment; a love appoint-
ment. Across the fog, across the snow, across 
the mud, beneath the burning dog-star, be-
neath the rustling rain, they go, they come, 
they trot, they pass under carriages; excited 
by fleas, passion, necessity or duty. Like our-
selves they rise early, and seek their livelihood 
or pursue their pleasures. 
There are some that sleep in a ruin of the 
suburb, and who come every day at a fixed 
hour to ask for their portion at the door of a 
kitchen of the Palais-Royal; there are others 
who run in troops fifteen miles and more to 
partake of the repast which the charity of cer-
tain sexagenarian old maids has got ready for 
them; women whose empty hearts are given 
to animals because senseless men will have no 
more to do with them. There are others who, 
like runaway negroes, maddened by love, 
leave, on certain days, their departments to