[Illustration: THE FALSE CAGNOTTE.]




                           THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

                                   MY
                           HOUSEHOLD OF PETS.


                               Translated

                           BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.

                          WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

[Illustration]

                                BOSTON:

                           ROBERTS BROTHERS.

                                 1882.




                           _Copyright, 1882_,
                          BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.


                           UNIVERSITY PRESS:
                    JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.




                               CONTENTS.


             CHAPTER                                  PAGE
                  I. OLD TIMES                           5

                 II. THE WHITE DYNASTY                  25

                III. THE BLACK DYNASTY                  45

                 IV. OUR DOGS                           66

                  V. CHAMELEONS, LIZARDS, AND MAGPIES  100

                 VI. HORSES                            119




                             ILLUSTRATIONS.


 THE FALSE CAGNOTTE                                       _Frontispiece_

 AS FOR THE EYES OF THE CAT, THEY WERE RIVETED ON THE
   BIRD WITH A FASCINATED INTENSITY                                   17

 THE WHITE DYNASTY                                                    23

 PIERROT                                                              29

 THE BLACK DYNASTY                                                    43

 LEAVE IS GIVEN HER TO PLACE HER FOREPAWS ON THE EDGE OF
   THE TABLE                                                          57

 OUR DOGS                                                             67

 MONSIEUR WAS STUDYING HIS LESSON                                     81

 WHEN PAYING LITTLE ATTENTIONS TO HIS LADY-LOVES HE STOOD
   ALWAYS ON HIS HIND LEGS                                            85

 THE CHAMELEON                                                       101




                         MY HOUSEHOLD OF PETS.




                               CHAPTER I.
                               OLD TIMES.


Caricatures are in existence which represent us clothed in Turkish
fashion, sitting cross-legged on cushions, and surrounded by cats, who
are fearlessly climbing over our shoulders and even upon our head.
Caricature is nothing more than the exaggeration of truth; and truth
compels us to own that for animals in general, and for cats in
particular, we have, all our lives long, had the tenderness of a Brahmin
or of an old maid. The illustrious Byron carried a menagerie of pets
about with him even when on his travels, and raised a tomb at Newstead
Abbey to his faithful Newfoundland, “Boatswain,” which bears an epitaph
of the poet’s own composition. But although we thus share his tastes, we
must not be accused of plagiarism; for in our case the tendency
manifested itself even before we had begun to learn the alphabet.

We are told that a clever man is about to prepare a “History of Educated
Animals;” so we offer him these notes, from which, so far as our animals
are concerned, he will be able to extract reliable information.

Our earliest recollections of this nature date back to our arrival in
Paris from Tarbes. We were then precisely three years of age,—a fact
which renders difficult of belief the statements of MM. de Mirecourt and
Vapereau, who assert, that at that time we had already “received a bad
education” in our native city. A homesickness of which one would hardly
believe so young a child to be capable took possession of us. We could
speak only in _patois_, and those who expressed themselves in French
seemed to us like foreigners and aliens. In the middle of the night we
would wake up and disconsolately ask if we might not soon be allowed to
go back to our own country.

No dainty could tempt us to eat. No plaything gave amusement. Drums and
trumpets even, failed to rouse us from our melancholy. Among the things
most mourned over was a dog named Cagnotte who had necessarily been left
behind. His absence produced such wretchedness that, one morning, after
having thrown out of window our tin soldiers, a German village painted
in gaudy colors, and our reddest of red fiddles, we were on the point of
following by the same road in hopes of finding the sooner Tarbes,
Gascony and Cagnotte, and were only dragged back in the very nick of
time by the collar of our jacket. The happy thought occurred to
Josephine, our nurse, to tell us that Cagnotte, impatient at being
separated from us, was coming to Paris that very day in the diligence.
Children accept the incredible with an artless faith; nothing seems
impossible to their minds; but it is dangerous to deceive them, for once
their opinions are formed the attempt to alter them is hopeless. All
that day long we asked every quarter of an hour if Cagnotte had not come
yet. At last, to pacify us, Josephine went out and bought on the _Pont
Neuf_ a little dog who somewhat resembled the dog of Tarbes. At first we
were mistrustful, and would not believe him to be the same; but we were
assured that travelling produces strange changes in the looks of dogs.
This explanation was satisfactory, and the dog of the Pont Neuf was
received as the authentic Cagnotte. He was an amiable dog, gentle and
pretty. He licked our cheeks amicably, and his tongue condescended to
stretch farther and extend itself to the bread-and-butter which had been
cut for our luncheon. The best understanding existed between us. In
spite of this, the false Cagnotte little by little became sad, dull, and
constrained in his motions. He no longer curled himself up easily for a
nap; all his joyous agility vanished; he panted for breath, and ate
nothing. One day, when caressing him, we discovered on his stomach what
appeared to be a seam, tightly stretched as if swollen. The nurse was
called; she came, she cut a thread with the scissors, and lo! Cagnotte,
emerging from a sort of jacket of curly lamb’s-wool with which the
dealers on the Pont Neuf had invested him in order that he might pass
for a poodle, stood revealed in all his poverty and ugliness as a common
street cur, ill-bred and valueless. He had grown fat, and his tight
garments were suffocating him. Relieved from his cuirass, he shook his
ears, stretched his legs, and gambolled joyfully round the room, not at
all disquieted at his own ugliness, now that he once more found himself
at ease. His appetite came back, and in his moral qualities we found
compensation for his loss of good looks. In the companionship of
Cagnotte, who was a true child of Paris, we forgot by slow degrees
Tarbes and the high mountains which we had been used to see from our
windows. We learned French, and we also became Parisian.

Let no one suppose that this is an imaginary tale invented to amuse the
reader. The facts are strictly true, and they show that the
dog-merchants of that period were as ingenious as are the jockeys of
to-day in disguising their wares to cheat unsuspecting country-folk.

After the death of Cagnotte our affections turned to cats as more truly
domestic animals and better friends for the fire-side. We will not
attempt to give a detailed history of all of them. Whole dynasties of
felines, as numerous as those of the Egyptian kings, succeeded one
another in our house; accident, death, escape, in turn carrying them
away. All were loved, and all were regretted; but life is made up of
forgettings, and the remembrance of departed cats is gradually effaced
like the remembrance of men.

It is a sad fact that the lives of these humble friends, our inferior
brothers, are not better proportioned to those of their masters.

After briefly alluding to an old gray cat, who took our part against our
own flesh and blood, and bit our mother’s ankles whenever she scolded or
seemed about to punish us, we pass on to Childebrand, a cat belonging to
the days of romance. From his name the reader will detect the secret
desire which we felt to dispute Boileau, whom at that time we did not
love, though since we have made peace with him. Does he not make Nicolas
say:—

         “Oh charming thought of poet, most ignorant and bland,
         Among so many heroes to choose out Childebrand”?

It did not seem to us that it argued such a depth of ignorance to select
a hero of whom no one knew anything. Beside Childebrand struck us as an
impressive name; very long-haired, very Merovingian, Gothic and Mediæval
to the last degree, and much to be preferred to a Grecian name,—be it
Agamemnon, Achilles, Idomeneus, Ulysses, or any other. These names,
however, were the fashion of the day, especially among young people;
for—to use a phrase taken from the notice of Kaulbach’s frescoes on the
outside of the Pinacothek at Munich—“Never did the Hydra of wigginess
dress more bristling heads than at that period;” and persons of a
classical turn doubtless gave their cats such names as Hector, Ajax, or
Patrocles. Our Childebrand was a magnificent cat of the house-tops, with
shaven hair, striped fawn color and black like Saltabadil’s clown in “Le
Roi s’Amuse.” His great green eyes of almond shape, and his velvet,
striped coat, gave him a resemblance to a tiger, which we found
extremely pleasing; for, as we have elsewhere said, cats are nothing
more than tigers under a cloud. Childebrand has the honor to figure in
some verses of ours, also intended for the discomfiture of Boileau:—

       Then I for you will paint that picture of Rembrandt
       Which pleases me most greatly; and meanwhile Childebrand,
       According to his custom soft couched upon my knee,
       Lifts up his pretty head and watches anxiously
       The movement of my finger, which traces in the air
       The outline of the picture to make it clear and fair.

Childebrand came in nicely as a rhyme to Rembrandt; for this fragment
was a sort of confession of faith and romance to a friend, since dead,
who at that time shared all our enthusiasms for Victor Hugo,
Sainte-Beuve, and Alfred de Musset.

We must say of our cats as said Ruy Gomez de Silva to the impatient Don
Carlos, when giving him the names and titles of his ancestors, which
began with “Don Silvius, three times elected Consul of Rome,” “I have
skipped some of the best——,” and so pass on to Madame Theophile, a
reddish cat, with a white breast, pink nose, and blue eyes, who was thus
named because she lived with us in an almost conjugal intimacy, sleeping
on the foot of our bed, or on the arm of our writing chair; following us
in our walks in the garden, assisting at our meals, and not infrequently
intercepting the morsels which we were conveying from our plate to our
mouth.

One day a friend, who was leaving home for a short time, left in our
charge a favorite parrot. The bird, feeling lonely in a strange house,
climbed by the help of his beak to the top of the perch, and sat there
rolling about in a scared way his eyes, which glittered like gilt nails,
and wrinkling over them the white membranes which served for eyelids.
Madame Theophile had never before encountered a parrot, and the novelty
awoke in her mind an evident astonishment. Motionless as an Egyptian cat
embalmed in its network of bandages, she sat regarding the bird with an
air of profound meditation, and putting together all the ideas of
natural history which she had been able to collect during her excursions
on the roofs or in the courtyard and garden. The shadows of her thoughts
flitted across her changeful eyes, and it was not difficult to read the
decision at which she finally arrived: “This is—decidedly it is—a green
chicken!”

This conclusion reached, the cat jumped from the table which she had
chosen as her observatory, and crouched in a corner of the room, her
belly on the floor, her knees bent, her head lowered, her spine
stiffened like that of the black panther in Gérome’s picture as it
glares at the gazelles who are drinking by the lake.

The parrot followed each movement of the cat with a feverish
disquietude. His feathers bristled; he rattled his chain, raised one of
his claws and exercised its talons, while he whetted his beak on the
edge of the feeding cup. Instinct revealed to him that this was an enemy
who was plotting mischief.

[Illustration: AS FOR THE EYES OF THE CAT THEY WERE RIVETED ON THE BIRD
WITH A FASCINATED INTENSITY.]

As for the eyes of the cat, they were riveted on the bird with a
fascinated intensity, and said plainly as eyes could speak, and in a
language which the parrot understood only too well, “Green though he be,
this chicken is without doubt good to eat.”

While we watched this scene with interest, ready to interfere whenever
it should seem necessary, Madame Theophile was imperceptibly drawing
nearer to her prey. Her pink nose quivered, her eyes were half shut, her
elastic claws projected and then disappeared again in their velvet
sheaths. Little shivers ran down her spine: she was like an epicure as
he seats himself at table before a dish of truffled chicken, and smacks
his lips in advance over the choice and succulent repast which he is
about to enjoy. This exotic dainty tickled all her sensuous
capabilities.

Suddenly her back curved like a bow which is bent, and with one strong
elastic bound she alighted on the perch. The parrot, seeing his danger,
remarked in a deep bass voice, as low and solemn as that of M. Joseph
Prudhomme, “Hast thou breakfasted, Jacquot?”

This remark created in the mind of the cat an evident dismay. She took a
sudden leap backward. A blast from a trumpet, a pile of plates crashing
to the floor, a pistol shot close to the ear, could not have inspired
more sudden and giddy terror in an animal of her race. All her
ornithological ideas were in one fell moment overturned.

“And on what? On the roast beef of the king?” continued the parrot.

The face of the cat now said, as distinctly as words, “This is not a
bird. It is a gentleman! He speaks!”

                   “When I on wine have feasted free,
                   The tavern turns around with me,”

sang the bird in a tremendous voice; for he perceived that the alarm
caused by his words was his readiest means of defence. The cat cast a
questioning glance toward us, and, getting no reassurance in reply, took
refuge under the bed, from which place of safety she could not be
enticed for the remainder of that day.

People who are not accustomed to live with animals, or who, like
Descartes, see nothing in them but irrational organisms, will no doubt
suppose that these designs and reflections which we attribute to birds
and beasts, are pure inventions of our fancy. In this they are mistaken:
we but interpret their ideas, and faithfully translate them into human
speech.

Next day Madame Theophile, regaining courage, made another attempt on
the parrot, which was repulsed in the same way. After that she gave it
up, and accepted the bird as a man.

This sensitive and charming animal adored perfumes. Patchouli, the scent
of cashmeres, threw her into ecstasies. She had also a taste for music;
perched upon a pile of score, she would listen attentively and with
evident pleasure to vocalists who came to test their voices at our piano
and receive criticism. Sharp notes, however, made her nervous, and at
the upper “la” she was apt to close the mouth of the songstress with a
tap of her little paw. It was an experiment which caused us much
amusement, and was unfailing. Our feline amateur never mistook the note,
and never let it pass unrebuked.

[Illustration: THE WHITE DYNASTY.]




                              CHAPTER II.
                           THE WHITE DYNASTY.


Let us now come down to a more modern epoch. From a cat imported by
Mademoiselle Aita de la Penuela, a young Spanish artist whose studies of
white Angoras adorned and still adorn the windows of the print-shops, we
obtained the tiniest possible kitten, which looked like one of those
puffs of swan’s-down which people use in rice-powder boxes. On account
of this immaculate whiteness, he received the name of Pierrot, which, as
he grew larger, was amplified into that of Don Pierrot de Navarre,—a
name infinitely more majestic and having a savor of real grandeur about
it. Don Pierrot, like all animals who are petted and spoiled grew up
charmingly amiable. He shared our family life with that enjoyment which
cats find in being admitted to the intimacies of the fire-side. Seated
in his wonted place beside the fire, he seemed always to understand the
conversation and to be interested in it. He followed the eyes of the
talkers, emitting from time to time a little mew, as if he too had
objections to make, and would like to add his opinion on the literary
topics which were usually the theme of our discourse. He adored books;
and whenever he found one lying open on the table he would seat himself
by it, looking earnestly at the pages, and sometimes gently turning one
with his claw. He usually finished by going to sleep, as soundly as
though he had in reality been reading a modern novel!

When we sat down to write he always jumped upon the writing-table, and
watched with a profound attention the point of the steel pen as it
scattered flies’ legs over the white surface of the paper, making a
little movement of his head at the beginning of each new line. Sometimes
he took a fancy to join in the work, and would try to get the pen away
from us, doubtless with the intention of using it in his turn; for he
was an æsthetic cat, like the cat Murr, described by Hoffman, and we
strongly suspected him of spending nights in some hidden gutter writing
his memoirs by the light of his own phosphoric eyes. Unfortunately these
lucubrations, if they ever existed, are forever lost.

Don Pierrot de Navarre would never settle himself to sleep till we had
come home. He always waited just inside the door, and, the moment we
stepped into the antechamber, rubbed himself against our legs, arching
his back, and purring in a joyous and friendly manner. Then he would
walk in, preceding us like a page, and no doubt with a very little
urging would have consented to carry the candlestick.

Having thus conducted us to our bedroom, he waited till we were
undressed, and then, jumping into bed, embraced our neck with his little
paws, rubbed his nose against ours, and licked us with a small pink
tongue, rough as a file, uttering meanwhile short, inarticulate cries,
which expressed as clearly as possible his joy at our return. Then,
having expressed his affection by these demonstrations, and the hour for
sleep being come, he would mount the head-board of the bed, and slumber
there, poised like a bird on a bough. As soon as we awoke in the morning
he would descend, and, stretching himself out close to us, wait quietly
till it was time to get up.

[Illustration: PIERROT.]

Midnight, in his opinion, was the hour at which it was our duty to
return to the house. Pierrot and the _concierge_ were entirely of one
mind on this point. Just then we had joined with a few friends in
getting up a little club, which we called “The Society of the Four
Candles,” from the fact that the room in which we met was lighted by
four candles in silver candlesticks, which were placed on four corners
of a table. Sometimes the talk became so engrossing that, like
Cinderella, we forgot the hour, at the risk of finding our carriages
changed into pumpkins and our coachmen into rats. Several times Pierrot
waited for our return until two or three o’clock in the morning; then
his feelings were so deeply hurt that he actually went to bed without
us. This dumb protest against our innocent irregularities was so
touching that afterwards we made a point of coming in punctually at
midnight; but Pierrot for a long while retained a grudge against us. He
wanted proof that our penitence was genuine; and not till time had
convinced him of the sincerity of our regret did he again take us into
favor, and resume his old position inside the door of the antechamber.

A cat’s friendship is a hard thing to conquer. Cats are philosophical
animals,—sedate, quiet, fixed in their habits, true believers in decency
and order, and not at all given to the bestowing of a thoughtless
affection. They will be your friends if you prove worthy of friendship;
but they will never be your slaves. Even in moments of tenderness a cat
preserves his freedom of will, and cannot be made to comply with demands
which seem to him unreasonable. But once he surrenders himself to you as
a friend, what absolute confidence he gives! what fidelity of affection!
He constitutes himself the companion of your solitary hours, of your
melancholy, of your work. He will pass whole evenings purring on your
knees, happy in your company, and forsaking that of animals of his own
species. In vain do enticing mews re-echo from the roofs, calling him to
join one of those cat-soirees where juicy red-herrings take the place of
tea: he will not be tempted away, and shares your vigil to the end. If
you put him on the floor, he jumps back to his place with a murmuring
noise which is like a soft reproach. Sometimes, standing near, he looks
at you with eyes so full of melting tenderness, so loving and so human,
that you are half-frightened; for it seems impossible that in such a
regard reason can be lacking.

Don Pierrot de Navarre had a companion of the same race, no less white
than himself. All the comparisons which we have heaped together in “The
symphony in white, major” cannot express the idea of this immaculate
snowiness, which makes even the fur of the ermine look yellow. This
second cat was named Seraphita, in honor of Balzac’s Swedenborgian
romance. Never did the heroine of that marvellous legend radiate a purer
whiteness, not even when, accompanied by Minna, she climbed the icy
peaks of the Falberg. Seraphita was of a contemplative and dreamy
disposition. She would lie for long hours on her cushion, not asleep,
but following, with an intense expression of the eyes, sights which were
invisible to common mortals. She liked to be caressed; but she caressed
in return only a favored few to whom her hard-won esteem was accorded.
She loved luxury; and it was always upon the softest chair and the piece
of stuff best calculated to show to advantage her swan-like fur that we
were sure to find her. Her toilet took an enormous deal of time; every
particle of her fur was made glossy each morning of her life. She washed
herself with her paws; and every hair of her coat, carefully brushed
with her rosy tongue, glistened like new silver. Whenever any one
stroked her, she instantly removed all trace of the contact: the least
untidiness disturbed her. Her elegance and distinction were truly
aristocratic: in the cat-world she must have ranked as a duchess at the
very least. She doted on perfumes, plunging her head into bouquets of
flowers, and nibbling with little quivers of satisfaction handkerchiefs
steeped in odors. She would walk up and down the dressing-table sniffing
at the essence bottles, and would willingly have allowed herself to be
dipped bodily into the scented rice-powder. Such was Seraphita, and
never did a cat better justify a poetical name.

About this time two of those counterfeit sailors who sell striped
table-covers, handkerchiefs woven of pineapple thread, and other foreign
commodities, chanced to pass through our street at Longchamps. They
carried in a tiny cage two Norway rats, with the prettiest pink eyes in
the world. White animals were a passion with us just then, and we
carried this passion so far that even our poultry-yard was stocked with
white cocks and hens. We bought the white rats, and had a large cage
made for them, with interior staircases which led to different
stories,—to dining-rooms, sleeping-chambers, and gymnasiums fitted up
with trapezes. In this cage they were happier and better lodged than
even the rat of La Fontaine in the middle of his Dutch cheese.

These pretty creatures—of which so many people, for reasons that we
cannot understand, have a silly fear—grew tame to an astonishing degree,
so soon as they became certain that no harm was intended them. They
allowed themselves to be stroked like kittens; and taking our finger
between their tiny pink paws, delicate to an ideal degree, would lick it
in a friendly way. They were usually let loose at the end of our meals,
and climbing on our arms, shoulders, and head, would dart in and out of
the sleeves of our jacket or dressing-gown with singular skill and
agility. The motive of all these exercises, so gracefully performed, was
to win leave to rummage among the remains of the dessert. Placed upon
the table, in the twinkling of an eye the pair would make away with
every walnut or hazel-nut, every dried raisin, every bit of sugar, which
remained. Nothing could be droller than the eager and furtive glances
which they cast about them while doing this, or their look of surprise
when they found themselves on the edge of the table-cloth. When a tiny
board was laid from the cage to the table, they would joyfully run
across it and store their plunder away in their private cupboard.

The couple multiplied rapidly, until whole families of equal whiteness
ascended and descended the staircases of the cage. At last we found
ourselves at the head of thirty rats, all so much at home with us that
when the weather was cold they burrowed in our pockets without the least
ceremony, and lay there, keeping themselves warm. Sometimes leaving open
the door of the Ratopolis, we would go up to the second floor of the
house, and give a whistle well known to our pupils. Then the tiny crew,
who with great difficulty could climb from one step of the stairs to the
other, would swarm upward, clutching the rail, pulling themselves along
by the balusters, following each other in a file with the regularity of
acrobats, up the steep road, down which occasionally one slipped, and
run to find us, uttering little cries and manifesting the liveliest joy.

We must now confess to an act of brutality. We had so often heard it
said that a rat’s tail resembled a pink worm and detracted from the
beauty of the animal, that at last we selected one from our menagerie,
and cut off the much-abused appendage. The little rat bore the operation
well, grew up bravely, and became a master rat, with a fine pair of
moustaches; but in spite of being lightened of the weight of his caudal
extremity, he was always less agile than his companions, was wary in
gymnastic exercises, and frequently experienced a tumble. When the troop
ran up the staircase, he invariably came last; and he always had the air
of an acrobat who is testing his tight-rope and is not quite sure of his
balance. This experiment convinced us of the usefulness of a tail to
rats. It holds them in equilibrium as they run along cornices and narrow
projections. When they swiftly turn to right or left the tail turns too,
serving as a counterpoise; and this is the cause of the perpetual wiggle
which characterizes it. Nature seldom makes a superfluous thing, and for
this reason we should be very cautious in trying to improve her
handiwork.

You will doubtless wonder how our rats and cats, creatures so totally
unsympathetic,—one in fact being the natural prey of the other,—managed
to live together. In the most amicable way imaginable. The cats never
showed their claws to the rats; the rats never exhibited the least fear
or distrust of the cats. This conduct on the part of the cats was
thoroughly sincere, and never once were the rats called upon to mourn
the death of a comrade. Don Pierrot de Navarre showed the tenderest
affection for these tiny neighbors. He would lie down by the cage for
hours together, watching them at play. If by accident the door of the
room was shut, he would scratch and softly mew to have it opened, that
he might rejoin his little white friends, who not infrequently would
come from their cage and go to sleep by his side. Seraphita, of a
loftier nature than he, and not so fond of the musky odor of rats, never
took part in these games; but she did the rats no harm, and suffered
them to pass before her without once extending a claw.

The end of these rats was strange enough. One sultry day in summer when
the thermometer marked the ordinary heat of Senegal, their cage was
placed in the garden, under the shade of a vine-covered arbor; for they
seemed to suffer from the heat. A heavy storm came up, with great gusts
of wind, lightning and rain. The tall poplars on the river’s bank bent
like reeds. Armed with an umbrella, we were on the point of going out to
look for our pets, when a vivid lightning flash, which seemed to split
the very depths of the heavens, stopped us on the first step of the
flight which led from the terrace to the garden. A tremendous
thunder-clap followed, louder than the discharge of a hundred cannon.
The shock was so violent that we were almost thrown down by it.

After this explosion the storm grew a little calmer; and hastening to
the arbor we found the thirty-two rats lying with their paws in the air,
all killed by the same thunderbolt.

The wire of their cage had without doubt attracted the lightning. Thus
perished together, as they had lived together, thirty-two Norway
rats,—an enviable death, and one not often granted by implacable fate!

[Illustration: THE BLACK DYNASTY.]




                              CHAPTER III.
                           THE BLACK DYNASTY.


Don Pierrot de Navarre, being a native of Havana, needed a very warm
temperature. This temperature was provided for him in our rooms; but
about the house lay extensive gardens, separated by wire fences which
offered no difficulties to a cat, and which were planted with large
trees, in whose branches innumerable birds twittered and sang. Not
infrequently Pierrot, profiting by an open door, would make his escape
of evenings for the enjoyment of a private hunt over the lawns and the
flower-beds wet with dew. Sometimes he had to wait till daylight before
he could re-enter the house; for, though he mewed under the windows, his
signal did not always rouse the sleepers within. His chest had always
been delicate, and one chilly night he took a cold, which speedily
developed into consumption. Poor Pierrot! he became painfully thin after
a year of coughing. His fur, once so silky, lost its gloss, and reminded
one of the dull, opaque whiteness of a winding-sheet. His great
transparent eyes looked enormous by contrast with his poor little face.
His pink nose grew pale, and he dragged his feet slowly along his
favorite sunshiny wall, watching the yellow autumn leaves whirled along
in spiral flights by the wind, and looking as though he were repeating
to himself the elegy of Millevoye.

There is nothing in the world more touching than a sick animal. It
submits to its sufferings with such a sweet, sad resignation. Everything
possible was done to save Pierrot. He had a skilful doctor, who
stethoscoped him and felt his pulse. Asses’ milk was ordered, and the
poor thing lapped it willingly enough from his little porcelain saucer.
He would lie for long hours on our knees, stretched out, and immovable
as the shadow of a sphinx. We could number his vertebræ with our
fingers, like the beads of a rosary. When he tried to respond to our
caresses by a feeble mew, it sounded like a death-rattle. On the day of
his death, as he lay panting upon his side, he raised himself with a
supreme effort and crept toward us, opening wide his dilated eyes with a
look which seemed to claim our help with an intense supplication. It
said plainly as words could say, “Come, save me, thou who art a man!”
Then he staggered; his eyes became fixed; and he fell with a cry so
desperate, so lamentable, so full of anguish, that we sat transfixed
with silent horror. He was buried at the bottom of the garden, under a
white-rose tree which still marks the place of his grave.

Two or three years later Seraphita died also, of a mysterious disease
against which all the resources of science proved unavailing. She is
buried not far from Pierrot.

With them the _Dynastie Blanche_ became extinct, but not the family. For
of this couple, white as snow, were born three kittens as black as ink.
Explain, who can, this mystery. The great excitement of the day was
Victor Hugo’s novel “Les Miserables.” No one spoke of anything else, and
the names of its heroes and heroines were in every mouth. Naturally,
therefore, the two male kittens were christened Enjolras and Gavroche,
while their sister received the title of Eponine. When very young they
acquired a number of pretty tricks. Among the rest they were taught to
run like a dog after a ball made of rolled-up paper, and to fetch it
back when thrown to a distance. Even though the ball were tossed up to
the cornices of the wardrobes, hidden behind piles of sheets on a shelf,
or dropped into a deep vase, they would always discover and fetch it
safely in their paws. Later in life they learned to despise these
frivolous amusements, and acquired that calm and dreamy philosophy which
is the true characteristic of the cat nature.

When people first land in one of the Southern States of America, the
negroes they see are to them simply negroes; they cannot tell one from
another. So to careless eyes three black cats are three black cats, and
nothing more. Observant persons, however, do not make such mistakes. The
physiognomies of animals differ from each other like those of men; and
we never had the least difficulty in distinguishing between these three
faces, all black as the mask of Harlequin, and lighted by emerald disks
with reflections of gold.

Enjolras, by far the prettiest of the three cats, could be identified by
his large and lion-like head, his well-whiskered cheeks, strong
shoulders, long back, and a superb tail which expanded like a plume.
There was something theatrical and emphatic about him, and he was
addicted to _poses_ like a favorite actor. His slow and undulating
movements were full of majesty. He could be trusted to walk over
consoles loaded with treasures in china and Venice glass, so
circumspectly did he order his footsteps. He was not much of a Stoic in
character, and his taste for dainties would have horrified his namesake
Enjolras, that sober and pure young man, who would doubtless have said
to him, as the angel did to Swedenborg, “Thou eatest too much.” This
gluttonous turn, which was as droll as that of a gastronomic monkey, was
indulged; and Enjolras attained a size and weight most unusual in a
domestic cat. The idea occurred to us to have him shaved like a poodle,
in order to complete his resemblance to a lion. A mane was left to him,
and one thick tuft of hair at the end of his tail. We will not swear
that it was not part of the original design to furnish him with
leg-of-mutton whiskers like those in the portrait of Munito. Thus
accoutred, he looked, it must be confessed, less like a lion of the
jungle or of the Cape than like a Japanese chimera. Never was a more
absurd whim carried out upon the body of a living animal. His hair was
shaved so closely that it showed the skin, which exhibited odd bluish
tones, and contrasted in the most extraordinary way with the blackness
of his mane.

Gavroche, as if to suit with the character of his namesake in the novel,
was a cat of a crafty and furtive disposition. Smaller than Enjolras,
his agility was most comical and surprising. His substitutes for the
jokes and slang of the Paris _gamin_ were capers, somersaults, and
ludicrous motions. We are forced to confess that, notwithstanding these
attractive qualities, Gavroche never lost an opportunity of stealing out
of the parlor in order to join in the street or courtyard with vagabond
cats,—

           “Of any sort of birth, and blood unknown to fame,”

in parties of the most unrefined sort, quite forgetting his dignity as a
cat from Havana: son of the illustrious Don Pierrot de Navarre, grandee
of Spain of the first rank, and of the Marquise Seraphita, whose manners
were so lofty and disdainful. Sometimes by way of a treat he would
conduct to his porridge-plate some comrade emaciated by famine and all
skin-and-bone, whom he had picked up during his peregrinations;
introducing him with all the airs of a condescending prince. The poor
wretch, with drooping ears, sidelong glance, and tail between his legs,
fearing that his free lunch might at any moment be interrupted by the
housemaid’s broom, would gobble down double, triple, quadruple
mouthfuls, and like _Siete-Aguas_, or Seven Waters, of the Spanish
_posada_, make the plate in a few seconds as clean as though it had been
scrubbed by a Dutch housewife to serve as a model to Mieris or Gerard
Dow.

Beholding these chosen protégés of Gavroche’s, that phrase with which
Gavarni illustrates one of his caricatures frequently came into our
head: “Fine friends these are which you have selected to go about with!”
But after all they were only a proof of Gavroche’s real goodness of
heart; for he might easily have eaten up everything himself.

The cat who bore the name of the interesting Eponine was more slender
and delicately made than her brothers. Her nose was slightly longer; her
eyes set obliquely in the head like those of a Chinese, were of a green
hue like the eyes of Pallas Athene, to which Homer invariably applies
the epithet γλαυκώπις. Her nose of a velvety blackness, as finely
grained as a Perigord truffle; her moustaches perpetually waving, made
up a physiognomy full of expression. Her superb black fur was always in
a quiver, and glittered with changeful lustres. Never was there a
creature so sympathetic, nervous, and theatrical as Eponine. If you
passed your hand over her back once or twice in the dusk little blue
sparks would flash from the fur. Eponine attached herself to us as
devotedly as did the Eponine of the novel to Marius; but not being
pre-occupied with a Cosette, as was that dear young man, we were able to
respond to the affection of this tender and devoted cat, who is still
the companion of our labors and the joy of our suburban hermitage. At
the sound of the door-bell she runs out, receives the visitors, shows
them into the drawing-room, asks them to sit down, talks with them; yes,
_talks_, prattling on with murmurs and little cries which are not in the
least like those which cats use to one another, but which resemble the
speech of men. What does she say, do you ask? She says in the most
intelligible language: “Gentlemen and ladies, do not be impatient; look
at the pictures, or, if you please, converse with me. Monsieur will be
here soon.” When we enter she discreetly retires to an easy chair or the
corner of the piano, and listens to the conversation without trying to
take part in it, like a polite animal who is familiar with the habits of
good society.

This charming Eponine has given so many proofs of merit, of
intelligence, and superior social qualities, that by common consent she
has been elevated to the dignity of a _person_; for there can be no
doubt that her conduct is governed by a reason which is far superior to
instinct. This dignity gives her the right to eat at table like a human
being, and not as cats do out of a saucer set on the floor in a corner.
Eponine therefore has her chair, which is regularly placed beside our
own, at breakfast and dinner. In consideration of her shape and size,
leave is given her to place her fore-paws on the edge of the table. She
has also her own plate and her own tumbler, but not a fork or spoon. She
watches the dinner through all its courses from soup to dessert, waiting
for her turn to be helped, and altogether comporting herself with a
wisdom and decency which we wish that children would oftener imitate. At
the first tinkle of the bell she makes her appearance, and when we enter
the dining-room there she is, already seated on her chair with her paws
crossed before her on the edge of the table; and she holds up her
forehead to be kissed precisely as a nice little girl does who has been
trained to show an affectionate politeness towards her parents and other
elderly friends.

[Illustration: LEAVE IS GIVEN HER TO PLACE HER FOREPAWS ON THE EDGE OF
THE TABLE.]

But there are flaws in the diamond, spots even on the sun, shadows upon
perfection, and Eponine, it must be owned, has an over-passionate love
for fish,—a passion which is shared by cats in general. In contradiction
to the Latin proverb

           “Catus amat pisces, sed non vult tingere plantas,”

she will dip her paw into water without the least hesitation in order to
draw out a carp, a white bait, or a trout. Fish awake in her a sort of
frenzy; and like children who are in a state of excitement over the idea
of dessert, she sometimes looks sulkily at the soup, when preliminary
observations made in the kitchen have assured her that there is fish to
come, and that the cook has no need to expiate a failure by falling on
his sword, as did the noble Vatel. At such times she is left unserved,
and we say to her coldly, “_Mademoiselle_, a _person_ who is not hungry
for soup cannot be hungry for fish,” and the dish is carried pitilessly
past under her very nose. When matters reach this serious stage the
dainty Eponine gobbles up her soup in all haste to the very last drop,
despatches every crumb of bread or Italian paste, and then turns round
and looks at us with a proud glance as one who has done her duty, and
whose conscience is henceforth free from reproach. Her portion of fish
is then given her. She eats it with the utmost satisfaction, and having
tasted of all the other dishes, finishes her meal with a glass of water.

When a dinner-party is projected Eponine, without seeing the guests,
understands perfectly well that there is to be company that evening. She
takes a look at her usual place, and, if she notices a knife, fork, and
spoon beside the plate, she decamps without a word and seats herself on
the piano-stool, which is her chosen refuge on such occasions. I should
be glad if people who deny the possession of reason to animals, would
explain this fact, apparently so simple and yet containing such a world
of inferences. From seeing beside her plate those utensils which man
only can use, this wise and observant cat argues that, for the day, she
must yield her place to a guest, and she makes haste to do so. She never
deceives herself about the matter, but sometimes, when the visitor is
one with whom she is on familiar terms, she will climb his knee and try
to coax a few tit-bits out of him by her grace and caresses.

But enough of this; we must not weary our readers. Stories about cats
are less popular than those about dogs. Still, we feel obliged to tell
the end of Enjolras and Gavroche. In some text-books there is this
sentence: “Sua eum perdidit ambitio.” One might say of Enjolras, “Sua
eum perdidit pinguetudo”—he died of his own fat. He was mistaken for a
hare and killed by some idiotic hunters. His murderers, however,
perished within a twelvemonth, and in the most miserable manner. The
death of a black cat, that most cabalistical of creatures, never goes
unavenged!

Gavroche, seized with a fanatical love of liberty, or perhaps with
sudden madness, leaped out of a window one day, crossed the street,
climbed the high fence surrounding St. James’ Church, which stands
opposite our house, and disappeared. In spite of our anxious enquiries
no traces of him could ever be found. A mysterious shadow hovers over
his fate. Thus of the black dynasty only Eponine remains. She is
faithful still to her master, and to all intents and purposes has become
an educated cat.

She has for companion a magnificent Angora, of a silver-gray coat which
makes one think of clouded Chinese porcelain. His name is Zizi, which
means—“Too handsome to do anything.” This beautiful creature lives in a
sort of contemplative stupor like a _thekiari_ during his period of
inebriation. Looking at him one is reminded of the “Ecstasies of M.
Hochener.” Zizi’s passion is music. Not content with listening to it, he
is himself a performer. Occasionally at night when all are sleeping
there breaks upon the silence a strange, fantastic melody which Kreisler
and the musicians of the future might well envy. It is Zizi, walking up
and down the keyboard of the piano and enjoying the rapture of hearing
the notes sing under his feet.

It would be unfair not to give a passing mention to Cleopatra, the
daughter of Eponine, who is a charming animal, but of too timid a nature
to be introduced to the public. She is of a deep fawn color, like
Mummia, the shaggy companion of Atta Croll, and her dark green eyes are
just like two enormous pieces of aqua-marina. She walks habitually on
three paws, and holds the fourth in the air, like the figure of a
classical line which has lost his marble ball.

This then is the chronicle of the Black Dynasty,—Enjolras, Gavroche,
Eponine,—recalling to us the creations of a beloved master. Only, when
we now glance over “Les Miserables,” it seems as though the principal
characters in the romance are taken by black cats, but this fact does
not in the least diminish the interest of the story for us.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                               OUR DOGS.


We have sometimes been accused of disliking dogs. This at first sight
does not seem to be a very grave charge, still, we feel bound to justify
ourselves, since the accusation carries with it a certain amount of
disgrace. People who prefer cats to dogs, pass in the eyes of most
persons as necessarily false, voluptuous and cruel; while dog-lovers are
supposed to be invariably pure, loyal, open characters, gifted, in
short, with all the attributes which are popularly ascribed to the
canine race. We could in no wise detract from the merits of Medor, Turc,
Merot, and other equally amiable beasts, and we are quite ready to agree
with the maxim formulated by Charlet: “The best thing which a man
possesses is his dog.” We have owned many, we still own some; and if our
calumniators will kindly call at our residence they will be greeted by
the shrill and furious barking of a small Cuban lap-dog, and by a large
greyhound who will take much pleasure in biting their ankles.

[Illustration: OUR DOGS.]

Still, we will not deny that our liking for dogs has a strong admixture
of fear. These animals, excellent, faithful, devoted as they are, may at
any moment run mad, and in that condition they are as dangerous and
deadly as the viper, the asp, the bell-serpent, or the cobra di capello.
This thought somewhat moderates our raptures over them. But, apart from
this, dogs somehow produce a disquieting effect upon us. Their eyes are
so deep, so intense; they place themselves before us with such an
interrogative air that it is almost embarrassing. Goethe did not like,
any more than ourselves, this gaze which seems to assimilate a man’s
most secret thoughts. He would drive the poor animals away, and say to
them “You have done your best: you shall not devour my identity.”

The Pharamond of our canine dynasty was named Luther. He was a large
white pointer with red spots, and handsome brown ears, who, having lost
his master, and searched after him vainly for a long time, domesticated
himself in the house of our parents, who then lived at Passy. Having no
partridges to hunt he gave himself up to the pursuit of rats, in which
pursuit he became as proficient as a Scotch terrier. At that time we
were living in a room in that blind alley of Doyenné, no longer in
existence, where Gérard de Nerval, Arsène Houssaye, and Camille Rogier
had established themselves as the centres of a picturesque little
Bohemian circle of artists and literary men, whose freaks and
eccentricities have been too often described elsewhere to need further
mention now. There, in the very midst of the Carrousel, we lived a life
as free and as lonely as if in some desert isle of the ocean,—among
nettles and blocks of stone, under the shadow of the Louvre, and close
to the ruins of an old church, whose crumbling arches presented the most
picturesque effects by moonlight. Luther, with whom we had always been
on friendly terms, seeing us thus take our final flight from the family
nest, assumed the task of making us a daily visit. He left Passy each
morning at some time unknown, and, following the Quai de Billy and the
Cours-la-Reine, arrived about eight o’clock, just as we were waking up.
Scratching at the door, which was always opened for him, he threw
himself upon us with a joyous yelping, put his fore-paws on our knees,
received with great simplicity and modesty the caresses which his good
conduct had earned, made a rapid inspection of the room, and then set
out on his homeward journey. Arrived at Passy, he would at once run to
our mother, wagging his tail and uttering little barks which said as
plainly as words, “Do not be anxious, I have seen the young master, and
he is well.” Having thus given a report of his self-imposed mission he
would lap a bowl full of water, eat his porridge, and, stretching
himself near the easy chair of mamma, for whom he had a particular
affection, would refresh himself by an hour or two of sleep after the
long journey that he had taken.

Those who hold that animals do not think and are incapable of putting
two ideas together, may explain as best they can this daily visit which
kept up the family relations, and gave to the old birds in the nest
regular news of their recently escaped fledgling.

Poor Luther! he had a melancholy end. He gradually became silent and
morose, and one day fled from the house, apparently because he felt
himself attacked by hydrophobia and feared that he might be led to bite
his master. We have every reason to suppose that he was killed as a mad
dog. At all events we never saw him again.

After rather a long interval, a new dog was installed at the house—a dog
called Zamore. He was half mongrel, half spaniel, small in size, and
with a black coat, excepting for a few spots of flame color beneath his
eyebrows and some tones of fawn color on the belly. He was, in short,
insignificant in appearance and rather ugly than pretty, but so far as
moral qualities are concerned he was really a remarkable dog. For women
he had an absolute contempt; he would neither follow nor obey them, and
our mother and our sisters tried in vain to win from him the least
evidence of friendship or respect. He would loftily accept their
attentions and their tit-bits, but he never deigned to give them a word
of thanks in return. No barking for them, no drumming of his tail
against the floor, none of those endearments of which dogs are so
prodigal. Toward these he maintained always an attitude impassive and
impassible, crouching in the position of a sphinx, like some serious and
dignified personage who disdains to mix in a frivolous conversation.

The master he elected to serve was our father whom he recognized in the
head of the family and a man of weight and character. Zamore’s
tenderness, even for him, was of an austere and stoical sort, and never
expressed by merriment, or antics, or lickings of the tongue. But his
eyes were forever fixed on his master, his head turned to watch each
slightest movement, and everywhere he followed him, his nose close to
his master’s heel, never permitting himself to play the smallest prank,
or paying the least attention to any dog whom they met. This dear and
lamented father of ours was a great fisher before the Lord. The barbels
caught by him must have out-numbered the antelopes caught by Nimrod. It
could never be said of his fishing-rod that it was an instrument with a
hook at one end and a fool at the other, for he was a man full of wit
and intelligence, which, however, did not hinder his filling his
fish-basket every day. Zamore always accompanied him on these
excursions, and during those long nocturnal watchings, which are
necessary for the capture of such fish as only bite when the line
touches bottom, he would place himself close to the water’s edge and
seem to explore the darksome depths with his eyes, as if searching for
the prey. Though he now and then pricked up his ears at those numberless
vague and distant sounds which are audible even in the deepest silence
of the night, he never uttered a bark, for he perfectly understood that
it is indispensable for a fisherman’s dog to be dumb. Diana might lift
her alabaster brow above the horizon and the river give back the
reflection; it was all in vain; not even at the moon would Zamore bark,
though such midnight bayings are among the chief pleasures of animals of
his species. Only when the bell on the fishing-line tinkled did he
indulge in a yelp, for then he knew that the prey was secured, and he
took intense interest in those after manœuvres which are requisite for
landing a barbel of three or four pounds weight.

Who could have guessed that under this calm and self-contained exterior,
so philosophical, so far removed from all frivolity, lurked one
imperious and extravagant passion, in utter contradiction to the
apparent character, moral and physical, of this animal so serious and so
thoughtful that one would have almost called him sad?

What, you say, has this admirable Zamore then some hidden vice? No. Was
he a thief, a libertine? No. Had he a taste for brandy-cherries? No. Did
he bite? Ten thousand times, no! Zamore’s passion was for dancing. In
him, a true Terpsichorean artist was lost to the world.

This vocation was discovered in the following manner. One day there
appeared in the public square at Passy a grayish ass, one of those
luckless donkeys belonging to a juggler, which Decamps and Fouquet have
so successfully painted. Two panniers, balanced across his galled back,
held a troop of trained dogs, costumed according to sex as marquises,
troubadours, Turks, Swiss shepherds, and queens of Golconda. The
show-man lifted out the dogs, cracked his whip, and instantly all the
actors exchanged the horizontal position for the perpendicular, and
transformed themselves from quadrupeds into bipeds. A fife and a
tambourine sounded, and the ballet began.

Zamore, who was strolling gravely past, stopped short, astonished at the
spectacle. These gayly caparisoned dogs, with laced seams and clinking
ornaments, plumed hats and turbans on their heads, and such an odd
resemblance to men and women, seemed to him supernatural beings. Their
measured steps, their courtesies, their _pirouettes_ enchanted but did
not discourage him. Like Correggio before the pictures of Raphael, he
cried in the canine language, “Anch’io son pittore,” “I also am a
painter,” and, seized with noble emulation as the troop defiled before
him in a ladies’ chain, he raised himself on his hind legs which visibly
shook, and, to the vociferous delight of the bystanders, made a movement
to join them. But the show-man was not so much charmed as the
bystanders. He gave Zamore a sharp cut of his whip and drove him from
the circle, just as one might expel from the door of a theatre a
spectator who, during the progress of the play, took it into his head to
climb on to the stage and join in the ballet.

This public humiliation, however, did not deter Zamore from following
his vocation. He ran back to the house with his tail between his legs
and an air of deep thought. All that day he was more silent,
pre-occupied and morose than usual. That night our two little sisters
were roused from their sleep by a low, mysterious noise which seemed to
come from an unoccupied chamber next to their own, where Zamore was in
the habit of passing the night on an old arm-chair. The sound was a sort
of rhythmic stamping, which in the quiet of the night sounded louder
than it really was. At first the children thought that it must be the
mice giving a ball, but the steps and the jumps were too loud and heavy
for mice. At last the bravest of the two crept out of bed, half opened
the door, and peeped in. What did she see by the light of a struggling
moonbeam but Zamore, erect on his hind legs, beating time with his
fore-paws, and practising as in a dancing class the steps which he had
so much admired that morning in the street. Monsieur was studying his
lesson!

[Illustration: MONSIEUR WAS STUDYING HIS LESSON.]

This was not, as might be supposed, a random fancy, pursued for one
night only. Zamore persisted in his Terpsichorean aspirations, and in
time became an admirable dancer. Every day, as soon as the fife and the
tambourine began to sound, he ran to the square, glided between the legs
of the spectators, and with the deepest attention watched the trained
dogs going through with their exercises. Mindful, however, of that cut
of the whip, he never again tried to join in the dance, but, noting
carefully each step, each movement, each graceful attitude, rehearsed it
at night in the privacy of his own room,—while by day he maintained his
usual austerity of demeanor. After a time, to imitate no longer sufficed
him; he began to invent, to compose new steps, and we are bound to say
that few dogs have ever surpassed him in this noble accomplishment.

We ourselves, concealed behind the half-open door, have often watched
him at his practice. He put so much energy and fire into his exercise
that, morning after morning, the huge bowl of water set for his
refreshment in the corner of the room the night before would be found
drained of every drop.

At length the day came when, all his difficulties conquered, he felt
himself the equal of any four-legged dancer in creation, and now it
seemed only proper to remove the bushel which had hitherto obscured his
candle, and give the world the benefit of his talents.

[Illustration: WHEN PAYING LITTLE ATTENTIONS TO HIS LADY-LOVES HE STOOD
ALWAYS ON HIS HIND LEGS.]

The courtyard of the house was closed on one side by a grating which
had openings wide enough to allow of the passage of dogs of an
ordinary size. One morning fifteen or twenty such friends of
Zamore’s—connoisseurs, without doubt, to whom he had sent cards of
invitation for his debut in the choregraphic art—were noticed
assembling round a level square of earth (which the artist seemed to
have swept clean with his tail), and the performances commenced. The
audience was enthusiastic, and manifested its approbation with
bow-wows which sounded extremely like the “Bravos!” of opera-goers.
With the exception of one old water-spaniel of a muddy and degraded
appearance, who seemed an adverse critic, and yelped out something
about “sound traditions ignored and forgotten,” all united in
pronouncing Zamore the Vestris of dogs and the true genius of the
dance. A minuet, a jig, and a waltz _à deux temps_ were included in
the programme. Quite a number of two-legged spectators joined the
four-legged ones before the entertainment was concluded, and Zamore
had the honor and satisfaction of being applauded by the clapping of
human hands.

After this his habits became so entirely those of the dancer that, when
paying casual attentions to his lady-loves, he stood always on his hind
legs, making courteous little bows and turning out his toes like a
gallant marquis of the _ancien régime_; nothing was lacking but the
plumed opera-hat under the arm.

Except for these occasional interludes Zamore’s character was as
splenetic as that of other comic actors, and he took no share whatever
in the ordinary life of the house. He never stirred except when he saw
his master take his hat and cane, and he died finally of brain fever,
caused, as we supposed, by the over-exertion and excitement of learning
the _Schottische_, which just then came into fashion. From his grave
Zamore might say, like the Greek dancer in the epitaph, “Lie on me
lightly, earth, for I have very lightly weighed on thee.”

Some may ask why, with such remarkable talents, Zamore was not engaged
as one of the troupe of M. Corvi. Even then we had sufficient influence
as a critic to negotiate such an arrangement had it been desirable. But
Zamore would not leave his master; he sacrificed his self-love to his
love,—a devotion which one cannot hope very often to find among men.

Our dancer was replaced by a singer named Kobold,—a King Charles spaniel
of the purest breed, brought from the famous kennels of Lord Lauder.
Nothing earthly was ever so like a chimera as this droll little
creature, with his enormous, bulging forehead, his prominent eyes, his
nose which seemed broken off at the base, and his long ears which swept
the ground. Carried over to France, Kobold, who spoke only English,
seemed at first to be half-stupefied. The orders given were perfectly
unintelligible to him. Trained to obey “Go on,” “Come here,” he stood
motionless and perplexed at the sound of “Va” and “Va-t’en.”

It took him a year to learn the language of his new country well enough
to be able to join in conversation. Kobold was very sensitive to music,
and sang several little songs himself, though with a strong English
accent. The key-note was given him on the piano, he caught the exact
tone, and in a flute-like and sighing voice warbled passages which were
really musical, and bore no relation whatever to barkings or yelpings.

When we wanted him to begin again it was only necessary to say, “Sing a
little more,” and he at once recommenced the cadence. For a creature
brought up in the most delicate luxury, and with all the care which one
would naturally give to a tenor and a gentleman of distinction, Kobold
had the most singular tastes. He devoured earth like a Digger Indian;
and this habit, of which he could not be cured, brought on a disease of
which he died. He had a strong turn for grooms, horses, and stables in
general, and our ponies had no comrade more devoted than he. In fact, he
may be said to have divided his time between the box-stalls and the
piano.

From Kobold, the King Charles, we pass to Myrza, a small Cuban lap-dog,
who at one time had the honor to belong to Giula Grisi, from whom we
received her as a present. She is white as snow, especially when freshly
washed, and before she has had time to roll in the dust,—a mania which
some dogs share with a certain kind of dusty-winged birds. She is the
gentlest of animals, very demonstrative, and guileless as a dove.
Nothing can be droller than her shaggy head, her face composed of two
eyes as glittering as furniture nails, and a little nose which might
easily be mistaken for a Piedmont truffle. Long locks of hair, as curly
as Astrakan wool, fly about this nose in picturesque confusion,
sometimes getting into one eye, sometimes into the other,—the whole
making up the most whimsical countenance imaginable, as odd and as
unreal as the face of a chameleon.

In Myrza’s case nature has imitated art with such perfection that any
one would be ready to swear that she came straight from the show-case of
a toy-shop. With her blue collar, silver bell, and her hair of the
regulation frizz, she looks exactly like a pasteboard dog; and when she
barks, one instinctively examines her feet to see if there is not a tiny
squeaking-machine fastened under the paws.

Myrza, who spends three quarters of the day in sleep, so that life would
seem pretty much the same to her if she were in reality stuffed, and who
under ordinary circumstances is anything but bright, nevertheless gave
one day a proof of intelligence such as we have never known in any other
dog. Bonnegrace, who painted those portraits of Tchoumakoff and of M. E.
H.,—which were so much talked about when exhibited, had brought a
portrait for us to look at, painted after the style of Pagnest, which is
so full of vivid color and lifelike light and shadow. Although we have
always lived in such intimate relations with animals, and could cite
hundreds of instances in which cats, dogs, and birds have proved
themselves wise, philosophical, and ingenious, we are forced to admit
that the taste for art is totally lacking among them. We have never seen
an animal who took the slightest notice of a picture, and the story of
the birds who pecked at the grapes painted by Apelles has always
appeared to us a pure invention. The one essential distinction between
man and beast seems to be just this sense of art and feeling for
decoration. A dog would be as likely to put on earrings, as to waste
time over pictures.

Well, Myrza, catching sight of Bonnegrace’s portrait set up against the
wall, jumped from the stool where she was lying rolled up like a ball,
rushed to the canvas, and began to bark furiously, trying to bite the
intrusive stranger who had entered the room. Her surprise was extreme
when she recognized the fact that she had a flat surface to deal with,
on which her teeth made no impression, and which was only a deceitful
show. She smelt the picture, tried in vain to get behind the frame,
looked at us both with a questioning expression in her eyes, and then
went back to the stool and resumed her nap, taking no further trouble
about the gentleman in oil-colors. Her own countenance, meanwhile, will
not be lost to posterity, for a beautiful portrait of her is in
existence, painted by M. Victor Madarasz, an Hungarian artist.

We will conclude our chapter on dogs with the history of Dash. One day a
rag-and-bottle man stopped at our door in search of scraps of broken
glass and old bottles. In his cart was a puppy some three or four months
old, which he had been told to drown,—an order which troubled the honest
fellow, at whom the puppy was casting tender and supplicating looks, as
if he understood the situation of affairs. The reason of the severe
sentence passed on the poor brute was that one of his fore-paws was
broken.

Pity stirred in our heart, and we adopted the condemned victim on the
spot. A veterinary surgeon was sent for, who set the leg and put it in
splints; but Dash persisted in gnawing off the bandages, so that the
bones did not unite, and the paw remained dangling uselessly, like the
sleeve of a man who has lost his arm. This infirmity, however, did not
hinder Dash from being one of the gayest, liveliest, and most alert of
dogs; and he ran on three legs quite as fast as was desirable.

He was the commonest of street dogs, a veritable mongrel, on whose breed
Buffon himself would have been embarrassed to decide. He was ugliness
personified, but possessed an expressive face, which sparkled with
intelligence. Everything that was said to him he understood,—his
expression changing according as the words, spoken in the same tone of
voice, were flattering or abusive. He rolled his eyes, turned up his
chops, abandoned himself to unrestrained, nervous wriggles, or laughed,
showing a row of white teeth; and, in short, produced the most comical
effect, of which he was quite conscious. Very often he tried to speak.
With paws placed upon our knee, he would eye us with an intense look,
and begin a series of murmurs, sighs, and growls, so varied in
intonation that it was easy to see that they were parts of a regular
language. Now and then, in the midst of this conversation, Dash would
interject a sudden and noisy yelp. Then we would look severely at him,
and say: “That is barking, not talking. Can it be that after all you are
only an animal?” Whereupon Dash, much humiliated by the insinuation,
would recommence his vocalization, throwing into it a still more
pathetic expression. No one could doubt that at these times he was
giving an account of his misfortunes.

Dash adored sugar. He always came in with the coffee after dessert, and
went round the table begging a lump of sugar from each person with an
urgency which seldom failed of success. In the end he grew to consider
these benevolent gifts in the light of a regular tax, which he
rigorously exacted. This cur, in the body of a Thersites, carried the
soul of an Achilles. Disabled as he was, he constantly attacked, with
the frenzy of an heroic courage, dogs ten times as big as himself, and
was frightfully beaten. Like Don Quixote, the brave knight of La Mancha,
he set out in triumph, and came back in most piteous plight. Alas, he
fell a victim to this mistaken courage. He was brought home, a few
months since, torn to pieces by an amiable brute of a Newfoundland, who
the very next day broke the backbone of a greyhound.

The death of Dash was followed by all sorts of catastrophes. The
mistress of the house in which he had received his deathblow was burned
to death in her bed a few days after; and her husband, in trying to save
her, met with the same fate. It was not an expiation, it was only a
fatal coincidence,—for they were the best people in the world, loving
animals like Brahmins, and not in the least to blame for the sad fate of
our poor Dash.

We have now another dog, who is called Nero, but he is too recent an
acquisition to have a history.

In the next chapter we propose to give a chronicle of the different
chameleons, lizards, magpies, and other small creatures who have made
part of our household of pets.


N. B. Alas, Nero is dead! He was poisoned a day or two since as
thoroughly as if he had supped with the Borgias, and the first chapter
of his life begins and ends with an epitaph.




                               CHAPTER V.
                   CHAMELEONS, LIZARDS, AND MAGPIES.


Once upon a time we happened to be at the port of Santa-Maria in the Bay
of Cadiz, a little village which seems cut out of the white loaf of
Spain, between the indigo of the sea and the lapis-lazuli of the sky. It
was noon, and on that particular day such a warm noon that the sun
appeared to be amusing himself by dropping spoonfuls of melted lead on
the heads of travellers, as the garrison of a beleaguered fortress, by
some well-planned artifice, pours boiling oil or pitch on the heads of
its assailants. This picturesque little port is made famous by the
celebrated song in the Andalusian _patois_ of Murillo-Bravo, “The Bulls
of Puerto,” in which the gallant boatman says to the lady about to
embark, “Lleve V. la patita.” We hummed the refrain in a voice which
sings no less falsely in Spanish than in French, following with our
eyes, as we sang, the line, straight as the selvage of a piece of linen,
which was cast by the shadow at the foot of the wall.

[Illustration: THE CHAMELEON.]

It was a market day, and foreign commodities of all sorts were exposed
for sale on the square, which were of colors gorgeous enough to enchant
Ziem himself. Garlands of fiery-red peppers swung above deep-green
melons, some of which had been cut in halves to show the rose-colored
pulp within, dotted with black spots like a shell from the South Seas.
Heavy clusters of clear, yellow grapes, like amber beads, reminding one
by their fair transparency of Turkish rosaries, hung by the side of
bunches of a bluish color, and others which were of an amethystine hue
shading into deeper purple. Chickpeas in weedy mats rounded their globes
of paly gold; pomegranates, bursting their rinds, showed caskets of
rubies within. The fruit-sellers, with their scarlet and yellow capes,
their black silk petticoats, bare feet thrust into satin slippers,—and
what feet, hardly bigger than a Savoy biscuit!—their paper fans held
against the cheek to take the place of a parasol, sat proudly beside
their vegetables chattering with that Andalusian volubility which is so
full of grace. Here and there some passing gallant, balancing himself on
the point of his white cane, his jacket swinging from his shoulders, a
broad sash from Gibraltar encircling his waist from armpit to hips, his
elastic breeches open at the knee, and leathern boots from Ronda
unbuttoned all the way up the leg, in what seems to be the height of the
style, lingered a moment to cast a seductive glance while rolling
between thumb and forefinger his cigarette of alcoy paper. It was one of
those blinding effects of southern light and color which would be called
an exaggeration of nature if any artist should attempt to reproduce in
full its crude and dazzling truth.

We sought a refuge from the fiery sun shower in the patio of The Three
Moorish Kings. A _patio_, as all the world knows, is an inside court
surrounded by arcades, whose arrangement reminds one of the ancient
_impluvium_. In place of a roof it is shaded by a linen awning striped
with gay colors, called in Spanish a _velarium_, which is kept
constantly wet, in order to secure greater coolness. In the middle of
this patio a slender thread of water rose and fell from a marble basin,
throwing a fine spray over boxes of myrtles, pomegranates and oleanders,
which were grouped about it. Sofas covered with horse-hair, and
cane-seated chairs, were scattered about under the arcades. Guitars,
suspended on the walls, cast brilliant reflections out of the shadow, as
the light glinted on their varnished surfaces, and beside them hung the
brown disks of tambourines.

These patios are common in the Moorish houses of Algeria, and no better
contrivance to secure coolness can be imagined. They are a device of the
Arabs adopted by the Spaniards. Upon the capitals of the smaller
columns, in many dwellings, can still be read verses from the Koran
glorifying Allah, or laudations of some caliph long ago driven back into
the heart of Africa and forgotten.

After draining an unglazed jug of cold water we retired to one of the
rooms opening on the patio for a siesta. Our drowsy eyes wandered to the
ceiling of the low chamber, which, like all Spanish ceilings, was
whitewashed, and ornamented in the middle by a rosette picked out into
yellow, black, and red sections like the sides of a ball. From this
rosette hung a cord meant, without doubt, to hold a lamp; and along this
cord a mysterious object was moving upward. We fitted our eyeglass into
its place under the arch of our eyebrow, and at last made out that the
thing, which with so much pains was climbing on the cord toward the
ceiling, was a kind of lizard, of a grayish yellow, and a shape which
had about it something monstrous, recalling in miniature those vast
Saurians which disappeared from earth at the close of the antediluvian
epoch.

The maid of the inn was summoned,—Pepa, Lola, or Casilda, we cannot
recall the exact name, but are ready to swear that she was an excellent
person,—and she explained that the creature on the cord was a chameleon.

Lola,—if Lola it was,—taking pity on our ignorance, and perhaps not
sorry to exhibit her own zoölogical knowledge, said to us in an
instructive way, “These animals change their color, you know, according
to the place where they happen to be, and they live on air.”

During our brief conversation the chameleons (for there were two)
continued their ascension of the cord. Nothing more absurd than their
appearance could be imagined. It must be admitted that the chameleon is
not beautiful, and, although people say that Nature does everything
well, it strikes us that by taking a very little more trouble she might
easily have made a prettier animal than he. But, like all great artists,
Nature has her caprices, and she occasionally amuses herself by
modelling grotesque shapes. The eyes of the chameleon, which are almost
completely detached from the head, are fitted into external membranous
sacs, and have complete independence of movement. They can look to the
right with one and to the left with the other, cast one up to the skies
and the other down to the floor, producing thereby a variety of squints
which have the most extraordinary effect. A swollen pouch under the jaw,
not unlike a goitre, gives the poor animal an air of haughty complacency
and stupid conceit, of which he is as unconscious as he is innocent. His
awkwardly formed paws make a projecting angle above the line of his
back, and his movements are alike ungraceful and meaningless.

One of the chameleons had now reached the top of the string and the
centre of the rosette. Putting out a pitiful little paw, he tried the
ceiling to see if it were possible to cling to it, and in that way to
effect an escape. In making this experiment, for the hundredth time
perhaps, he squinted with his eyes in the most desperate and touching
way, as if invoking aid from heaven and earth; then, seeing no hope of
egress on that side, he slowly began to descend the cord again, with a
sad, resigned, and piteous look,—emblem of useless labor, a Sisyphus of
wasted energies. Half-way down the two creatures met, exchanged glances
meant to be friendly, perhaps, but horrible from their squints, and for
a moment or two formed a group which was like a hideous bunch on the
perpendicular line of the string.

After a few ludicrous contortions the group disentangled, each chameleon
continuing its journey, the one which was coming down reaching the end
of the cord, stretching out a hind leg, sounding the air cautiously and
finding no place of support, drawing it in again with a discouraged
movement whose heart-breaking and absurd melancholy baffles all
description. By one of those associations of ideas which cannot be
accounted for, but which the mind conceives without understanding why,
the chameleons reminded me of one of Goya’s gloomiest etchings, in which
are represented spectres, who, with feeble and shadowy arms, are trying
to lift heavy stones which roll back upon and crush them,—an unequal
conflict of weakness with destiny.

In order to deliver these poor animals from their sufferings we bought
for them a rough sort of cage. It was of good size, and, once installed
therein, they were able to dispense with those acrobatic exercises which
seemed to make them so miserable. As to the question of food, with all
respect for Southern frugality, this living on air by its very name
seems insufficient. A Spanish lover may, perhaps, be able to breakfast
on a glass of water, dine on a cigarette, and sup on a tune from his
mandolin; but the tastes of chameleons are less refined, and they crave
and devour flies, which they catch, in the oddest manner, by darting out
from the throat a sort of long lance covered with a viscous slime, which
adheres to the wings of the insect, and, when drawn in again, carries
him bodily along with it into the gullet.

Do chameleons change their color according to the place where they
happen to be? In the literal sense of the words they do not, but their
skins, broken by little facet-shaped roughnesses, absorb the hues of
surrounding objects more easily than other bodies do. Placed near a red
thing, or a yellow or a green one, the chameleon seems to steep itself
in that color, but, after all, it is but an effect of refraction. A
plate of polished metal will be colored in the same way; there is no
real power of absorption. In its ordinary state the chameleon is of a
gray-green or a yellowish gray. However, those who have a taste for
marvels may, if they like, assert that the chameleon changes its color
at will, and is thus the proper emblem of political versatility; but we
must be permitted to say in our turn that after the minutest
observations, continued for a long time, we are convinced that
chameleons are entirely indifferent to affairs of state and everything
connected with them.

We were anxious to carry our chameleons home with us, but the autumn was
near at hand, and, though the sun still had a great deal of heat as we
followed the coast northward from Tarifa to Port Vendres, passing by
Gibraltar, Malaga, Alicante, Almeria, Valencia, and Barcelona, the poor
beasts faded away before our very sight. As they wasted, their eyes
seemed to project from their heads, and day by day to increase in
prominence. Their squint increased; under their loose and flabby skins
their tiny skeletons grew more and more distinct with every mile. It was
a piteous sight,—these consumptive lizards feebly going through the
death dance, and too weak even to thrust their sticky tongues out for
the flies which we collected for them in the galley of the steamer. They
died within a few days of each other, and the blue Mediterranean was
their grave.

From chameleons to lizards the transition is easy. Our youngest daughter
once received the present of a lizard which had been caught at
Fontainebleau, and which became very fond of her. Jacques’ color was the
most beautiful Veronese green that can be imagined. His eyes were very
bright, his scales overlapped each other with the most perfect
regularity, and his movements were extraordinarily swift. He never left
his little mistress, and usually lay hidden in a loop of her hair near
the comb. Nestled there, he accompanied her to the play, to walk, to
evening parties, without once betraying his presence; only, when the
young girl was playing on the piano, he would desert his retreat,
descend her shoulder and creep out to the end of the arm, always
preferring the right hand, which plays the air, to the left, which makes
the accompaniment,—thus testifying to his preference for melody over
harmony.

Jacques’ house was a glass box lined with moss, which had once contained
Russian cigars from the Eliseïeph manufactory. His private life may
therefore be justly said to have lain open to the public. His food
consisted of drops of milk, which he preferred to take from the end of
his mistress’s finger. He died of grief and hunger during her absence on
a journey, to which she had not dared to expose him on account of the
severity of the weather.

There is nothing to be told of Balylas, the sparrow, but that he died.
One blow under his wing, from a claw, finished his career, and he was
buried in a domino-box.

It now only remains for us to describe Margot, the magpie,—a most
intelligent and chatty gossip, worthy to live in an osier cage in the
window of a concierge and be fed with white cheese. We wasted much time
in trying to teach her the dead languages. She never could be taught to
pronounce correctly the Latin for “Bonjour,” as did the Pompeiian
magpies. She could not say “Ave,” but she said a great many other
things. She was a most comical and entertaining bird, who would play at
hide-and-go-seek with the children, dance the Pyrrhic dance, and
fearlessly attack any number of cats, absolutely running after them and
nipping the ends of their tails; which malicious act she always
supplemented with a loud burst of laughter. She was as thievish as the
“Gazza Ladra” herself, and equal to getting ten servants hung on false
accusations. In the twinkling of an eye she would rifle every knife,
fork, and spoon from the table. Money, scissors, thimbles, anything that
glittered, she would seize upon and swiftly fly away with to her hiding
place. As the corner where she deposited her stolen goods was well known
to us all, we allowed her to do this; but the servants of a neighboring
family were less indulgent, and they killed her one day because, as they
stated, she had stolen a pair of new sheets,—an accusation which made us
think of that minute cat in “How to succeed,” which devoured four pounds
of butter and only weighed three quarters of a pound after it! The
master and mistress of the house scouted the idea, and turned the fools
of servants off at once; but this reprisal did not mend the matter, Dame
Margot’s neck was none the less wrung. She was lamented by all the
neighborhood, which had been kept in a state of constant diversion by
her good humor and her pranks.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                                HORSES.


Do not be in a hurry to accuse us of coxcombry on seeing the heading of
this chapter. Horses!—a glorious word indeed for the pen of a literary
man. _Musa pedestris_ (the muse goes on foot), says Horace, and all
Parnassus together had but a single horse in its stable,—the well known
Pegasus; and he, if we may believe Schiller’s ballad, was a beast with
wings, and not at all easy to harness. We are no sportsman, alas, and we
deeply regret the fact, for we are as fond of horses as though we had an
income of five hundred thousand francs a year, and entirely agree with
the Arabs in their contempt for people who are forced to walk. A horse
is the natural pedestal for a man, and the perfect existence is that of
the Centaur,—that ingenious mythological invention.

However, notwithstanding that we are a simple man of letters, we once
had horses. About the year 1843 or 1844, when engaged in sifting the
sands of journalism through the sieve of the daily newspapers, enough
golden particles appeared, to allow of the hope that, in addition to
dogs, cats, and magpies, we might be able to find food for a couple of
pets of larger size. At first it was a pair of Shetland ponies, about
the size of a large dog, and shaggy as bears, who looked at us through
their long, black manes with such friendly faces that we felt much more
inclined to take them with us into the parlor than to send them to their
stable. They helped themselves to sugar out of our pockets, just like
trained horses. For use, however, they were entirely too small. They
would have answered very well to carry an English child eight years old,
or as coach horses to Tom Thumb; but, even at that date, we were blessed
with the same athletic frame as now, and crowned with the same plenteous
flesh which still characterizes us, and which we have been enabled to
support, without giving way under its weight, for forty consecutive
years. The difference in size between master and beasts was quite too
apparent to the eye, though it must be said for the ponies that they
made no difficulty at all about drawing their light phaeton, to which
they were fastened by a tiny harness of pale fawn-colored leather, which
looked as though it might have been purchased at a toy-shop.

At that time illustrated comic journals were not so plentiful as to-day,
but there were plenty in existence to caricature us and our equipage. Of
course, with the exaggeration permissible in such cases, we were
invested with elephantine proportions, like those of Ganesa, the Indian
god of wisdom, while the ponies dwindled to the size of puppies,—or,
even less, to that of rats and mice. It is true that, without great
difficulty, we might have carried the little creatures, one under each
arm, and the phaeton to boot upon our back. For a moment we debated the
possibility of harnessing four, but this Liliputian four-in-hand would
have been still more conspicuous. With great regret therefore (for we
had already grown fond of the gentle creatures) we exchanged them for a
pair of dappled-gray ponies of a larger size, with strong necks, wide
chests, and massive shoulders, which, though far enough from being
Mecklenburgers, at least looked capable of drawing grown people about.
They were mares,—one named Jane and the other Betsey.

In appearance they were as much alike as two drops of water. Never was a
better match so far as looks went; but in proportion as Jane was
mettlesome, Betsey was indolent. While the former pulled at the collar,
the other trotted by her side contentedly, shirking work, and giving
herself no sort of trouble. These two animals, of the same breed, the
same age, fated to live in stalls side by side, felt for each other the
strongest antipathy. They could not endure each other, fought in the
stable, and snapped and bit when prancing in the traces. Nothing could
reconcile them. It was a pity too, for with their brush-like manes cut
like those of the horses of the Parthenon, their snorting nostrils and
eyes dilated with fury, they presented rather a triumphant appearance
when going up and down the Champs Elysées.

We were obliged to look for a substitute for Betsey, and found one in a
small mare with skin of a somewhat lighter color,—for the shade we
wanted could not be exactly matched. Jane approved at once of this
new-comer, with whom she seemed charmed, and did the honors of the
stable in the most graceful way. The tenderest friendship was soon
established between them; Jane would rest her head on the shoulder of
Blanche,—thus named because her shade of gray bordered on white,—and
when let loose in the courtyard for an airing, they would play together
like dogs or children. If one was driven out in single harness, the
other, left behind, seemed sad, gave signs of feeling lonely, and, when
far away she heard the hoofs of her comrade sounding on the pavement,
she raised a joyful neighing like the blast of a trumpet, to which her
approaching friend never failed to respond.

They came to be harnessed with remarkable docility, and would go of
their own accord to their proper places on either side of the pole. Like
all animals who are loved and kindly treated, Jane and Blanche soon
acquired the most perfect confidence and familiarity. They would follow
us about on their hind legs like dogs, and when we stood still, put
their heads on our shoulders to be petted. Jane loved bread, Blanche
sugar. Both of them adored watermelon rind, and there was nothing that
they would not do to obtain these dainties.

If only men were not so odiously ferocious and brutal as they too often
are, how happily and good-naturedly animals would play about them! This
being, who can think, can speak, can do so many things which they cannot
understand, fills their dimly understood thoughts, and is for them a
perpetual astonishment and mystery. How frequently animals look at us
with eyes which are full of questionings—questionings to which we cannot
reply, as we have not the key to their language! They have a language,
nevertheless, by which, through sounds and intonations which we scarcely
notice, they exchange ideas,—confused, perhaps, but still ideas, such as
creatures of their sphere of sentiment and action can understand. Less
stupid in this one instance than ourselves, they succeed in learning a
few words of our idiom, but not enough to enable them to talk with us.
These words are mostly answers to our demands upon them, so our
intercourse is naturally brief. But that animals talk with each other no
one can doubt who has ever lived familiarly with dogs, cats, horses, or
any other sort of beasts.

As an example of this, Jane, who by nature was perfectly fearless,
shying at no obstacle whatever, and afraid of nothing, changed her
character after living for a few months in the same stable with Blanche,
and began to exhibit sudden and unaccountable fears. Her more timid
companion had, without doubt, told her ghost stories at night. At times,
when dashing along in the dusk through the Bois de Boulogne, Blanche
would stop short and shy sharply to one side as if to avoid some
phantom, which, invisible to us, had appeared to her. Trembling all
over, with loud breathings, and body covered with sweat, she would rear
straight on end if we tried to make her go on by touching her with the
whip. Jane could not force her to follow, however hard she might try. In
these cases there was nothing to be done but to get out, cover Blanche’s
eyes and lead her along for a few paces till the vision took flight.
Jane ended with allowing herself to be conquered by these terrors, which
Blanche, when safely back in her stable, doubtless explained to her in
full. We must frankly own that when, in the middle of a dusky lane
checkered by moonlight into fantastic lights and shadows, Blanche,
usually so docile,—Blanche, who, to excite her into a gallop, needed
nothing heavier than that whip of Queen Mab’s which was made of
cricket’s bone with gossamer lash,—planted herself suddenly on her four
feet as though some spectre had seized her bridle, and with
unconquerable obstinacy refused to move a step forward, we could not
prevent a cold chill from running down our spine. Searching the shadow
with unquiet glances, we almost imagined that we could detect therein
the ghastly countenance of one of Goya’s “Caprices,” where in reality
were only innocent silhouettes of leafy birch-trees or beeches.

It was one of our great pleasures to drive these charming animals
ourselves, and an intimate understanding was soon established between
us. If we held the reins in our hands, it was mainly for the look of the
thing. The least click of the tongue sufficed to guide them to right or
to left, to make them go slower or bring them to a stop. In a very short
time they learned all our habits. They went of their own accord to the
newspaper office, to the printers, to the editors, to the Bois de
Boulogne, to the houses where we dined on particular days of the week,
all with such exactitude that at last it became absolutely compromising.
By consulting Jane or Blanche any one could have procured the address of
our most mysterious visiting-places. If, while pursuing some interesting
or tender conversation, we forgot the flight of time, they would recall
it to our minds by neighing, and stamping with their hoofs under the
balcony.

Notwithstanding the pleasantness of going about the city in a phaeton
with our little friends to pull it, we could not help sometimes finding
the wind sharp and the rain cold, when those months came in so fitly
christened in the Republican calendar as “Brumaire, Frimaire, Pluviôse,
Ventôse, and Nivôse.” We therefore purchased a blue coupé lined with
white reps, so small that people compared it to one belonging to the
most famous dwarf of the day, an insult about which we were troubled
very little. A brown coupé lined with garnet succeeded the blue, and was
replaced at a later date with one of the color of a crow’s eye
upholstered with deep blue; for we luxuriated in carriages, in spite of
being nothing but a poor scribbler, with no income stated in the big
book, and no legacies left us for years back; and our ponies, though
nourished on literature, so to speak, with nouns for hay, adjectives in
place of oats, and adverbs instead of straw, were none the less fat and
glossy because of that. Alas, just then came, no one knew exactly why,
the Revolution of February. Paving-stones were being dug up on all sides
to serve patriotic ends, and the streets were no longer accessible for
wheeled vehicles. We might easily have scaled the barricades with our
agile ponies and their light equipage, but unluckily we had no credit
left anywhere but at the cook-shop. Horses cannot be fed on roast
chicken. The horizon was lowering with heavy black clouds, across which
red lightnings flashed. Money took alarm, and made haste to conceal
itself. The newspaper for which we wrote suspended publication, and we
thought ourselves fortunate when a purchaser turned up and took horses,
harnesses, and carriages off our hands at a quarter of their value. It
was a bitter grief to us to have them go, and we will not swear that a
salt tear or two may not have dropped on the manes of Jane and Blanche
as they were led away.

They are driven past their old home occasionally by their new owner; and
always the light feet make an instant’s pause under the windows, to
testify that they have not forgotten the dwelling where they were once
so cared for and so tenderly loved. Then we breathe a bitter and
sympathetic sigh, and say in the depths of our heart, “Poor Jane! Poor
Blanche! Are they happy?”

In the overwhelming of our tiny fortunes theirs is the only loss which
caused us a real regret.


            University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.