are the H of Hugo," said M. Vacquerie; and the remark seems to have been considered impressive, rather than exceptionally foolish. Even in childhood, this favourite of fortune was fed with sugared praise. His schoolboy verses on "The Happiness which Study Affords in all Situations of Life," were received with serious transport, as though so admirable a sentiment were newly born; and Chateaubriand, reading them, exclaimed fervently, "Cet enfant est un enfant sublime."
A man who is talked to and written about in this fashion all his life needs the corrective influence of cats, and happily Victor Hugo was blessed in his feline society. His pussies were one and all serene, supercilious, and inclined to ostentation, deeming themselves of more importance than the whole race of human scribblers. There was Mouche, a magisterial cat, defiant and reserved; and the beautiful Chanoine, too indolent for self-assertion, who spent most of her life sleeping gracefully and undisturbed, like the enchanted Princess in the fairy tale; and there was that superb beast, deep-eyed and silken furred, whom M. Méry stroked one day with cautious joy, observing: "God made the cat that man might have the pleasure of caressing the tiger." The curtained and cushioned dais in the salon of the Place Royale mansion, about which ill-natured critics laughed maliciously, was
