Jean Beraud The Theatre des VarietesJean Beraud Symphony in Red and GoldJean Beraud Pont des artsJean Beraud Leaving La Madeleine Paris
they chase us if we sneak off now?' she said.
'Don't think so. Meeting's over, see?'
'Come on, then.'even have a word for wolves! It's not like that. Names are human things.'
'Dogs have got names. I've got a name. Gaspode. 'S'my name,' said Gaspode, a shade sullenly.
'Well . . . I can't explain why,' said Angua. 'But wolves don't have names.'They sauntered into an alley and, when they were sure they hadn't been noticed, ran like hell.'Good grief,' said Angua, when they had put several streets between them and the crowd of dogs. 'He's mad, isn't he?''No, mad's when you froth at the mouf,' said Gaspode. 'He's insane. That's when you froth at the brain.'All that stuff about wolves—''I suppose a dog's got a right to dream,' said Gaspode.'But wolves aren't like that! They don't even have names!''Everyone's got a name.''Wolves haven't. Why should they? They know who they are, and they know who the rest of the pack are. It's all . . . an image. Smell and feel and shape. Wolves don't
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