At the breaking out of the war there lived in the little town of MÉru, twenty-five miles distant from Paris, a man named Jacques Thallant. He had for a daily companion a dog called Bijou, just a common every-day dog of the French poodle breed.

Jacques was among the first to offer his services to his country and was accepted. He requested the privilege of taking Bijou with him and his request was granted. Jacques was sent into active service and Bijou soon accustomed himself to trench life, and with the soldiers shared their army privations. Frequently Jacques was placed on picket duty and Bijou was company for him during the long tedious nights of watching.

Picket duty is one of the most hazardous duties for the soldier. During the day the enemy locates the picket posts and it requires but little practice for a sharpshooter to so train his gun as to do most effective and fatal work at night by shooting at random. A cold, dismal night found Jacques at a picket post with Bijou at his feet, imparting warmth as well as companionship. This night proved to be the last for poor Jacques, as my story will tell. A shot rang out—a bullet sped on its deadly errand—Jacques fell fatally wounded. His life blood was flowing rapidly, and his mind turned to his wife and children in far away MÉru. He searched for paper and pencil and found in his pocket a letter he had that day received from his loved companion at home. Hastily he scrawled on the envelope the story of his condition, and with weakening hands he placed the same in the pouch attached to Bijou’s collar, and in failing voice commanded him to go home to his mistress. In the morning Jacques was found cold in death, still grasping the pencil in his hand. Search was made for the dog but he could not be found, and the record was made “Jacques Thallant shot while on duty.”

Three hundred and more kilometers covered the distance between Verdun and MÉru. Early in the morning of the third day after the soul of Jacques had passed beyond, Mme. Thallant heard a noise without the house and hurriedly dressing, reached the door just in time to see the faithful dog’s death-glazing eyes brighten for an instant, and then with a convulsive quiver his limbs relaxed in death. On examination a bullet wound was found in his groin and then they knew the agony he must have endured in fulfilling his master’s last command. A stray bullet doubtlessly dealt the death blow as he sped to do his master’s bidding. For two days and three nights he dragged himself onward with the entrusted message, without food, without rest, true to the trust imposed in him, until his work was accomplished and then——

My old friend Hildevert Labrosse told me the story with tears in his eyes, and together we walked down the narrow street leading to the home of Widow Thallant. He showed me the gate through which the dog had dragged himself and up the walk to the house, and the threshold of the door on which he died. They buried the faithful creature in the corner of the yard near a shed where he was wont to sleep at night and where his ever faithful eyes could watch over the safety of his master’s house. A small headboard with the simple inscription “Bijou, Faithful Unto Death” marks the last resting place of Jacques’ friend.

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