lay a gentle, remonstrating paw upon the singer's lips. Again and again, says Gautier, this experiment was tried by guests who deemed such interruption an amusement; and again and again it had the same result. Beyond a certain pitch, their voices were never permitted to rise. "The dilettante in fur was not to be deceived."
After Madame Théophile, the cat who seems to have lain closest to his master's heart was Pierrot, so named in infancy because he wore spotless white; though later in life he won for himself a more distinguished title,—like Bentham's Sir John Langbourne,—and became known to Parisian society as Don Pierrot de Navarre. He was of an affectionate disposition, though tranquil and self-contained; never effusive, but delighting in the refinements of confidential and sympathetic intercourse. "He shared the life of the household," writes M. Gautier, "with that enjoyment of quiet fireside friendship which is a characteristic of cats. He had his own place on the hearth, and would sit there for hours, listening to conversation with a well-bred air of intelligence and interest. He glanced occasionally from speaker to speaker, and addressed them with little half-articulate sounds, as though protesting politely against their statements, or offering an opinion of his own upon the matter under discussion. He loved books, and, when he found one
