able inconstancy of the human heart. "Dynasties of cats, as numerous as the dynasties of the Pharaohs, succeeded each other under my roof," he confesses. "One after another they were swept away by accident, by flight, by death. All were loved and regretted; but oblivion is our common fate, and the memory of the cats we have lost fades like the memory of men."
Which—or rather who—of these famous pussies reigned preëminent over the rest? To whom did Gautier grant his flattering preference? We cannot tell, though Madame Théophile, first and fairest of the group, held a more distinguished,—a more legitimate position I had almost said, in the poet's house. He acknowledges that he gave her his name to show the intimacy of their friendship, the closeness of their mutual regard. Like Chateaubriand's Micetto, Madame Théophile was a reddish cat, with snowy breast, soft blue eyes, and the pinkest of little pink noses. She slept at the foot of her master's bed; she sat on the arm of his chair while he wrote; she walked sedately up and down the garden by his side; she was present at all his meals, and frequently intercepted a choice morsel on its way from his plate to his mouth. She was the heroine of the delightful adventure with the parrot, which is so well known to readers, but which I cannot refrain from quoting once again.
