exceedingly corpulent, and had such puffed-out checks, that they were wonderful to look at. When she asked them the cause, they answered: "As we are not permitted to laugh or to speak during our travels, and are constantly witnessing all sorts of absurdities and almost intolerable follies, our inclination to laugh is so great, that the suppression of it swells us up, and causes what may properly be called risible dropsy, of which we cure ourselves as soon as we get home." The Princess admired the good sense of the pagodine people; for really we might be ready to burst with laughter, if we laughed at all the extravagancies we are daily beholding.
There was scarcely an evening without a performance of one of the best plays of Corneille or Moliere. There were frequent balls. The most diminutive pagods danced on the tightrope, in order to be better seen. Finally, the banquets given to the Princess might have served for feasts at the greatest solemnities. They brought her books of every description, serious, amusing, historical: in short, the days ran away like minutes; although, to speak the truth, all these ingenious pagods appeared to the Princess intolerably little, for it often happened that when she went out walking, she had to put some thirty or so into her pockets, in order to take care of them. It was the most amusing thing in the world to hear the chattering of their little voices, shriller than those of the puppets in a show at the fair.
It happened one night that the Princess not being able to sleep, said to herself, "What is to become of me? Shall I always remain here? I pass my days more agreeably than I could have ventured to hope; yet something is wanting to my heart. I know not what it is; but I begin to feel that this round of pleasures, unvaried by a single event, is rather insipid." "Ah Princess," said a voice, as in answer to her thoughts, "is it not your own fault? If you would consent to love, you would soon know that it is possible to remain with a beloved object, not only in a palace, but in a frightful wilderness, for ages without wishing to leave it."
"What pagodine speaks to me?" inquired the Princess. "What pernicious advice does she give me,—inimical to my future peace?" "It is not a pagodine," replied the voice, "who forewarns you of what will sooner or later occur. It is the unhappy sovereign of this realm, who adores you, Madam,
