ARTIST PRIDE OF THE SETTER. 
83 
allows himself to be beloved by greenhorns— he never loves any 
other than a perfect hunter. I remember having often suffered 
in my youth from the contempt of a setter named Ajax, whom I 
courted every day with wings of fowls and other delicate atten- 
tions, and who flattered me in return with every friendly expres- 
sion of his good will while at the table, but elsewhere m the field, 
no longer knew me. Why this cruel disdain, insulting contempt ? 
Because I had had the misfortune to miss three quails succes- 
sively, under his nose, the first time he had been entrusted to me. 
Since this awkwardness, the ungrateful fellow had withdrawn his 
esteem from me, and had ceased to consider me as serious ; he 
willingly consented then to go out with me, but only to walk, and 
not for any other cause. Once out, he ran after larks, and seemed 
to take. a great interest in the work of mice and moles, but no more 
troubled himself about partridges and quails than if that game 
had never existed. 
I have yet upon my heart the look of cold irony that he cast at 
me, turning his head the time that I missed three shots in suc- 
cession. He remained, perhaps, a whole minute motionless at his 
last set, to give me time to calculate the distance at which I had 
fired on his third quail ; then suddenly letting down his ears and 
tail, he came with a slow and grave step to take his place behind 
me, giving me to understand that he considered his services 
perfectly useless for the purpose that I made of game. I tried 
many times after to make him forget his unfavorable opinions in 
respect to me. I presented myself at his domicile with game-bags 
filled to overflowing. He continued to welcome my visits with 
pleasure, and pretended even to give faith to my words, when I 
affirmed that I was indeed the murderer of all this game, but never 
could I persuade him to verify the assertion with his own nose. 
The setter is faithful only to talent, and loves to work only under 
the eyes of an artist capable of appreciating his work. 
The setter has far too much intelligence. I know some that 
abuse it odiously to exploit the credulity of their masters. .My 
rogue Castagno is of this number. I desire that these lines may 
not come to his hearing. Once when I had winged a water-hen 
that swam to an islet covered with reeds in the midst of the Seine, 
