pitying eyes and helping hands; the prolonged agony of Moumoutte Blanche who fought piteously for her fast ebbing life;—these things we have read in mournful moments, wishing them all the time untold, just as we wish their author would not suddenly intrude some unseemly jest upon us when we are least attuned to its reception.
Yet never has a cat of character been drawn with the careful and sympathetic art bestowed upon Moumoutte Chinoise. She is the Jane Eyre of pussies; ugly, intelligent, sensitive, passionate, self-controlled, intrepid, and vivacious. M. Loti can hardly be said to resemble Rochester; but, like that beatified barbarian, he had the quality of discernment, which enabled him to see the spirit and charm hidden beneath so mean and shabby an exterior.
"Elle a, dans sa laideur piquante,
Un grain de sel de cette mer,
D'où jaillit, nue et provocante,
L'âcre Venus du gouffre amer."
