Chapter V (8)

These sage conclusions led at once to my assuming the airs and importance of a creature who for the first time discovers that his genius has raised him from the gutter far above all his fellows. I seemed at once to acquire a more dignified and imposing strut while parading the spout, and at the same time a capacity for looking calmly into space, towards the place of my ultimate destiny, far removed from this narrow terrestrial sphere. All this was a wonderful transformation to be wrought by the careless boast of a tawdry gossip, and clearly proves how nicely poised are the affairs of life. Such incidents are not unknown among men, as the word of a fool has been known to arrest the overthrow of a kingdom. {254}

Among other things, it occurred to me, since Nature has gone out of her way to make me what I am, I must be a poet. I can hardly explain the process of reasoning which led to this belief; for all that, the belief became so rooted in my brain that I must needs jot down my inspiration. It is universally acknowledged that the first step to be taken towards becoming a great poet is to look like one. I accordingly studied to look genius all over, and the result was, I was accepted as my own estimate. Next I determined to go in for classical verse, and bring out a poem in forty-eight cantos, so framed as to apprise the universe of my existence. I shall deplore my isolation in such a manner as to stir up the envy of the happiest beings on earth. Since Heaven has refused me a mate, I shall utterly condemn the law which divides the bird creation into families, each having its own distinctive attributes. I will cry down everything—prove that grapes are sour, that Nightingales sing one into despair, and that Blackbirds have fallen away from their primeval whiteness. But first I must lay hold of a good rhyming companion, a handy-book to lift me out of the horrors of fishing for words of the same sound. It will also be necessary to establish about my person a retinue of needy journalists and authors as an exhaustless source of inspiration, in order to deluge the world with rhymes copied from the strophes of Chaucer, and with plays decked out from the sentiments of Shakespeare. Thus shall I ease my overburdened soul, make all the Tomtits cry, the Ringdoves coo, and the old Owls screech. Above all, one must prove one’s self inexorable to the sweet sentiment of love. In vain shall I be waylaid and entreated to have compassion on maidenly hearts melted by my song. My manuscripts shall be sold for their weight in gold, my books shall cross the seas, fame and fortune shall everywhere follow me. In short, I shall be a perfectly exceptional bird, an eccentric, and at the same time brilliant writer, received with open arms, courted, admired, and thoroughly detested by a thousand rivals.

VII.

An interval of six weeks introduced my first work to the world, which turned out, as I promised myself it should, a poem in forty-eight cantos. It was slightly marred by a few negligences, the result of prodigious fertility of brain and the inability of my pen to keep pace with my inspiration. Nevertheless, I wisely concluded that the public, {255} accustomed as they are in modern times to all that is swift in thought and action, would shield me from reproach. The success of this, my pristine effort, was simply as unparalleled as it was thoroughly deserved. The subject of the poem was my noble self; in this respect adhering to the prevailing custom, I related my sufferings and adventures, and put the reader in possession of a thousand domestic details of the most piquant interest. The description of my mother’s nest filled no less than fourteen cantos. With the most graphic minuteness were noted the number of straws, grasses, and leaves of which it was composed, the whole being idealised by the tints and reflections of poetic genius. I displayed the inside and the outside, the bottom and the brim, the graceful curves and inclined planes and angles, gradually leading the reader up to the grand theme of the contents—the remains of flies, may-bugs, and grubs which supplied the dainty fare of our home. Thus ascending, I reserved, with true poetic art, the dramatic incidents of my life for the grand _dénoûement_.

Europe was moved by the apparition of my book, and eagerly devoured its thrilling revelations. How could it be otherwise? I had not only laid bare the facts of my existence, but pictured the dreams which disturbed my repose for many years, even introducing an ode composed in the yet unbroken egg. Of course I did not neglect the subject which interests every one—that is, the future of humanity. This problem, which for a moment had arrested my attention, was dealt with, and dashed off in outline, giving universal satisfaction.

Every day brought its tribute of congratulatory letters and anonymous love declarations, while my door was besieged by newspaper correspondents and Western tourists seeking an interview. All personal intercourse I positively declined, until forced to make an exception to a Blackbird from Senegal and another from China, who announced themselves as relatives of my own.

“Ah, sir,” they said, nearly choking me with their embraces, “you are indeed a noble bird. How admirably you have painted in your immortal lines the profound sufferings of an unknown genius! If we are not already thoroughly misunderstood, we should become so after reading you. How deeply we sympathise with your griefs and your sublime scorn of vulgar opinion. Our own experience, sire, has made us familiar with all the troubles of which you sing. Here are two sonnets we humbly pray you to accept as a token of our worship.” {256}

“Here is besides,” added the Chinese, “a song composed by my wife on a passage in your preface. She seems to have caught wonderfully the inspiration which it breathes.”

“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you seem to be gifted persons endowed with sentiments that are a credit to your nations, but permit me to inquire the reason of your manifest melancholy?”

“Ah, sir, see how I am formed. My plumage, it is true, is pleasant to behold; it is not without the tinge of emerald green, the glory of Ducks and dupes. For all that, my beak is too short and my claws too long, and whoever saw such a frightful tail as mine? I am nearly all tail. Is it not enough to give one the blues?”

“As for me, sir,” said John Chinaman, “my misfortune is a still more painful one. My comrade’s tail sweeps the streets, while the vulgar point the finger of scorn at me because I have only a stump.”

“Gentlemen,” I replied, “I pity you with all my heart. It is always painful to have too much or too little of anything, no matter what it is. But allow me to tell you that in our museums there are many examples of your class who have been stuffed and preserved in peace for years. My own case is infinitely worse than yours put together. I have the misfortune to be a lettered bird, a genius, and the only bird of my kind. In spite of my resolution to remain single, the return of spring-time caused me much uneasiness, and an event as unexpected as it was welcome decided my future. I received a letter from a young white Merle in London. It ran thus:—

“ ‘I have read your poem, and the devotion it inspired has constrained me to offer you my hand and fortune. God created us for each other. I am like you, for I am a white Merle.’

“My surprise and joy may be imagined. A white Merle! Is it possible? I hastened to reply to the charming note—equal in terseness and fathomless sentiment to a love message in the second column of the _Times_. I besought the fair unknown to come at once to Paris, the refuge of romance-stricken young ladies. My reply had the desired effect; she came at once, or rather soon after her second letter, which informed me that she would not bother her parents with details. It was better to tell them nothing, as they might deem it necessary to send an old carrion Crow to look into my character.

“She came at last. Oh, joy! she was the loveliest Merle in the world. Was it possible that a creature so charming had lived and been reared for me? All my father’s curses, and, above all, my {258} sufferings were welcome, since Heaven had reserved such an unexpected consolation for me. Till to-day I thought myself doomed to an eternal solitariness, but now I feel, while gazing on my lovely bride, all the nobler qualities of a father fully developed within me. Accept my claw, fair one, let us wed in the Anglo-Saxon fashion, and start for Switzerland.

“Nay,” replied my love, “our wedding must be on a truly magnificent scale, all the Blackbirds of good birth must be invited. Birds in our position ought to observe the nicest ceremony, and not wed like water-spout cats. I have brought a provision of bank-notes with me. Arrange your invitations, and spare no cost in ordering the feast. I am of French origin and love display.”

Blindly yielding to the wishes of my charmer, our wedding was of extraordinary brilliancy. Ten thousand flies were slaughtered for the feast, and we received the nuptial benediction from an old father Cormorant, archbishop _in partibus_, and the happy day’s festivities concluded with a splendid ball.

The more I studied the character of my wife, the greater became my love. She combined in her dainty person every imaginable grace of body and mind. Only she was given to gossip, which I attributed to the influence of the English fog, and never had a moment’s doubt that our genial climate would dissipate this little cloud.

There was some mystery hedging her round, which troubled me with grave forebodings. She used to shut herself up with her maids, under lock and key, for hours together, engaged, so she said, at her toilet. Husbands as a rule have no patience with such proceedings. More than a score of times have I knocked at my wife’s door without receiving the slightest response. One day I insisted with such violence that she was compelled to open the door, but not without favouring me with a sample of her temper. On entering, the first thing that met my gaze was a huge bottle of a sort of paste made up of flour and whitewash. I inquired of my wife what she used that stuff for, to which she replied, it was a mixture for chilblains. This seemed rather strange, yet how could so charming a creature inspire me with anything but confidence.

Up to the present time I had remained ignorant of the fact that my wife had cultivated letters. Imagine my joy on discovering that she was the author of a romance modelled after the style of the illustrious Sir Walter Scott. I was then not only the husband of an incomparable {259} beauty, but of a truly gifted companion. From that instant we worked together; while I composed my poems, she covered reams of paper and {260} displayed the rare gift of listening to my recitations without pausing in her task of composition. She composed her romances with a facility almost equal to my own, always choosing subjects of rare dramatic value; homicides, murders, and highway robberies, taking care in passing, to shoot poisoned shafts at the Government by advocating the cause of the Merula vulgaris. In a word, no efforts were too great for her mind, or tricks for her modesty. Never had she need to cross through a line, or lay her plans before beginning to work.

One day while my wife was toiling with unusual ardour, she perspired freely, and to my horror I beheld a black patch on her back. “Bless my soul, dear!” I said “what is that? Are you plague-stricken? Are you ill?” She at first seemed frightened and speechless, but her knowledge of the world soon restored her habitual self-composure, and she replied that it was a spot of ink, a stain to which she was subject in moments of inspiration. Inwardly I was greatly troubled. Does my wife lose her whiteness? was a question which cost me many wakeful nights. The paste bottle rose like a phantom before me. Oh heavens! what doubts. Can this celestial creature, after all, only be a painting, a work of art? Is she varnished to deceive me? Had I been wooed and won by a mixture of flour and whitewash? Haunted by doubt, I took measures to lay the apparition by investing in a barometer, and watching for signs of coming rain. I planned to decoy my wife some doubtful Sunday into the country, and try the effect of an impromptu wash, but we were in the middle of July, and the weather provokingly fine. Real happiness, and long habit of writing, had much increased my sensitiveness. While at work it sometimes happened that my affections were stronger than my inspiration, and I gave way to tears, while waiting for my rhyme. My wife loved these rare occasions, and strove to soothe my masculine weakness.

One evening while dashing through my writing according to Boileu’s precept, my heart opened. “Oh thou, my queen!” I said, “thou my only truly loved one, thou without whom my life is a dream, thou whose look, whose smile, fills my world with light. Life of my heart! dost thou know the height, the breadth, the depth of my love? Before thou camest to me my lot was that of an exiled orphan, now it is that of a king. In my poor breast thine image shall be enshrined till death. All! All my hopes and aspirations are centred in thee.”

While thus raving, I wept over my wife, and as each tear-drop fell upon her back, she visibly changed colour. Feathers, one by one, not {261} even black, but red appeared—she must have coloured red to fill some other _rôle_. Soon I found myself _vis-à-vis_ with a creature unpasted, unfloured, and nothing more than a vulgar Blackbird. How dare I publish my shame! I plucked up courage and resolved to quit the gay world, to give up my career, to flee to a desert, if that were possible, to shun the sight of every living creature.

IX.

I flew away broken-hearted, and the wind, the good angel of birds, wafted me on its wings to a branch at Mortfontaine. It was night, the birds were asleep, but the Nightingale still sang. Alone in the darkness his heart overflowed with his song to God for His goodness, his breast expanded with the sacred theme, and with a rapture unfelt by the most gifted poets who sing for the ears of men. I could not resist the temptation of addressing him.

“Happy Nightingale, you sing because your heart is bursting with joy. You are indeed highly favoured, you have a wife and little ones which you sing to sleep on their pillow of moss. You have a full moon to cheer you, plenty to eat, and no journals to praise or condemn you. Rubini and Rosini are as nothing to you. You are equal to the one, and divine when compared with the other. I, sir, have wasted my life in pursuing the empty vanities of fame, while you have secured real happiness in the wood. May your secret be learned?”

“Yes,” replied the Nightingale, “but it is not what you imagine. My wife bothers me, I do not love her! I am passionately fond of the Rose; Sadi, the Persian, has spoken of it. I sing all night to her while she sleeps and is deaf to my praise. Her petals are closed at this hour. She cradles an old Scarab, and when the gray dawn breaks sadly over the wood, and my eyes are closing in sleep, then she will open her breast, and the Bee will be welcomed with the dainty pollen from the lips of her lover.”

{262}

THE QUEEN’S HUSBAND.

The first political act in which I took part made so deep an impression on me, that I attribute the strange vicissitudes of my life to its influence. Permit me to begin my narrative without further introduction.

I had reached maturity and become a citizen of the hive, when one morning I was roused by a knocking at the partition, and some one calling on me by name.

“What is wanted?” I inquired.

“Come out at once!” was the instant rejoinder. “You are wanted. Monsieur is about to be executed, and you are required as one of the guards of honour.”

These awful words, which I scarcely comprehended, filled me with horror. I was, for all that, aware beforehand of the impending doom of Monsieur, but had no notion that my services would be required at the ghastly ceremony.

“Here I am!” I exclaimed, and finishing my toilet in all haste, precipitated myself outside the hive, a prey to the strongest emotion. I was not pale, but green! Monsieur was one of the finest drones in the hive, rather stout, but, withal, well made; his physiognomy was full of a pleasing, wistful, and yet proudly aristocratic expression—as novelists would say—I had often seen him accompany the queen in her daily rounds of inspection, tormenting her with his jokes, helping her with his foot, sharing with her the prestige of sovereignty, and altogether appearing to be the happiest of princes, and most beloved of husbands. The people loved him little, but feared him much, he had the queen’s ear, the queen had publicly kissed his forehead, and it was reported by one of the chamber maids that Monsieur was soon to be a father. This important news spread around, and filled each cell with joy. We saw ourselves transformed into nurses surrounded by groups of children, giving food to this one, rocking that one. Already in each chamber a soft couch was prepared to receive the new comer, and in the evening {263} before going to sleep, certain flowers had been pointed out as those containing the sugar which would yield the most delicate honey, as food for the youngsters when they made their appearance.

Our expectations were confirmed. Our beloved queen laid ten thousand twin eggs, all so beautiful that it was impossible to choose between them. The prince was radiant with joy, and spent his whole time in kissing the eggs one after the other. I had witnessed all this, {264} had beheld him in his glory, and now, I was rudely awakened to see him dragged to his doom. More than that, oh horror! I was chosen to be his executioner. The prince, under the dreadful circumstances, showed decided reluctance to yield up his life. This seemed all the more pitiable as nature had deprived him of either offensive or defensive weapons. He was completely in our power.

“What have I done to deserve this doom? Oh, my queen, grant me but one hour!” he cried, kneeling before her, “but half an hour, nay, five minutes. I have revelations, confessions . . . ”

“Make haste!” said the queen, striving to conceal her emotion; “we must abide by the law. Away with him; put an end to him; he is now worse than useless.”

The queen retired to her chamber, still full of souvenirs of the prince, and in an instant he was pierced by a thousand darts. Should I live a century, I shall never forget the scene. I pretended to share in the outrage, yet never moved my sting from its sheath. Even among the most advanced communities there are barbarous laws. Poor Messieurs, poor Messieurs!

Of these Messieurs, vulgarly called Drones, there are from five to six hundred in one hive, each one to be called upon to mount the steps of the throne, and to pay with his life for the excess of honour thus accorded to him. The prospect of a tragic end gave many of them sad looks, which contrasted with the natural gaiety of their fellows. One could mark them crawling listlessly along among the thousands of orderly workers that thronged the streets, alleys, and cells of the city, dejected and oppressed by their coming glory. At the slightest noise they turned round tremblingly. “Is the queen calling us?” they would inquire, and speedily they hid themselves away among the crowd, and, escaping from the hive, sought the freedom of fields and flowers.

There are many troubles which fall to the lot of those in high positions. The fat, overfed idlers who strut about, are most of them merely servants and dependants, unworthy of the vulgar admiration lavished on them by the working class. This sentiment of aristocracy worship is a common folly to which I myself have been subject, and which it ill befits me to condemn. Shall I confess it? I madly loved a Drone. Yes, I loved him. He was handsome beyond description. When he entered the corolla of a flower, I trembled lest the contact with its petals should spoil his beauty. I was mad. Platonic love; {265} for Nature permitted us only the ideal, impossible love of the poet, the dream of the artist. I loved this creature simply for his beauty.

I admired the blue Dragon-fly with his silken wings, as I watched him skimming over the grass at the close of the day. I had, indeed, an eye for everything beautiful, and above all, for my superb Drone.

One day I found him half drunk with honey, lying fast asleep in the heart of a lily; his face, though smeared with yellow pollen, still retained its noble expression. He was snoring in a most majestic and regular manner. I stood for a moment, quite rooted to the spot by the glorious spectacle. This then, I thought, is a future husband of our queen! I at last approached him, foolishly curious to examine the details of his figure, and gently touched him, when, yawning, he said—

“What does your Majesty want now?”

Then looking at me, he perceived his mistake, and added smiling—

“I am not in your way, my child, so proceed with your work, and permit me to rest in peace.”

There must have been a subtle odour in this flower which stole into my head, for I instantly forgot my work, and remained looking at him dreamily. What are we? I thought. Only miserable workers, makers of honey, moulders of wax, and neuter nurses to the children of those magnificent idlers who spend their days in sleeping in the heart of flowers, and dreaming that they hear the silvery tones of the queen’s voice calling them. I own myself ashamed of my humble, laborious calling. How could he love such a simple drudge? Were I even a Wasp, scouring lanes and hedgerows, and annoying wayfarers—careless, coquettish, unkind—always armed, offensive and useless; perhaps then he might love me. Is not fear the beginning of love? Hence is it not a means of seduction? Such thoughts, and a thousand others, were buzzing in my brain; still my admiration only became all the more intense, and I exclaimed, in spite of myself—

“O Prince, most handsome Prince, you are exceedingly beautiful!”

“All right,” replied the Prince, “I know it; my position requires it. Pray do not disturb my repose; go away, like a good fellow.”

This strange language to a neuter disturbed me not a little. He evidently did not even know my sex, far less my love for him. That which charmed me most was—I scarce dare write it—his glorious {266} idleness, the helplessness of his fine body, and insolent coolness of his fine language. I scorned and yet loved him. I knew he was accustomed to snore daily when in this perfumed spot; I therefore got through with my work quickly, and made the flower my resort, after dressing the little ones confided to my care, and nearly choking them with hasty meals, so that I might go and prepare his place, and sweep away with my wings any yellow powder that would soil his coat. If a few drops of water had gathered in the corolla, I pierced it with my stings and left, so that my master might repose there without fear of rheumatism.

He was none the more thankful; his requirements only increased and kept pace with my love and care for him. He would smile, blissfully stretching himself, and request me to mount guard outside the flower, so that no common insect might trouble his dreams. It tried my temper, yet I watched. One day I saw him coming; he was very pale, but his walk was steadier than usual.

“What is the matter, Prince?” I inquired anxiously.

“Go away, little one. I have need of air, and the sun will not mind seeing me face to face to-day.”

I trembled for the misfortune that seemed to have overtaken him.

“To-morrow! to-morrow!!” he cried, making gestures which denoted the trouble of his mind. “To-morrow I shall be the queen’s husband!”

A mist obscured my eyes; deep resentment filled my heart. I was mad with jealousy.

“From to-day till to-morrow many things may happen!” I exclaimed.

“Silence! how dare you in my presence proclaim your seditions?”

“No,” I said, “you shall never wear the crown!” I flew at him, and profiting by a momentary turn of his head, pierced him to the heart with my sting. Hardly had he breathed his last, when I burst into remorseful tears.

I returned to the hive to find everything in the greatest disorder. The entire community, a prey to the deepest agitation, were jostling and knocking each other about.

“What has happened?” I inquired of the first Bee I met.

“What happened?” he replied. “Why, one of the Drones is missing.

“How is that known?” I continued with much fear. {267}

“At the evening call there were only five hundred and ninety-nine Drones present. The queen has had a nervous attack, and one is lost in conjecture as to what will be the result.”

“A dreadful affair!” I replied, and hastened to mingle with the crowd.

The queen was inconsolable, and so was I myself, for the space of two whole days.

{268}

THE LOVES OF TWO INSECTS.

_PRESENTED AS AN EXAMPLE TO WISE MEN._[1]

SENTIMENTAL HISTORY OF ANIMALS.

I.

PROFESSOR GRANARIUS.

“Certainly,” said Professor Granarius, one evening while seated beneath his limes, “nothing is more curious than the conduct of Jarpeado. In truth, if the French followed his example, we should have no need of codes, mandates, sermons, or social gatherings, for the advancement of mankind. Nothing proves more conclusively that _reason_ alone—the attribute of which men are so proud—is the prime cause of all the evils of Society.”

[1] The distinguished animal to whom we owe this
history—designed to show that the creatures so boldly named
stupid by men, and in reality superior to human beings—desires
to remain anonymous. It may nevertheless be said, that he is a
creature who held a very high place in the affections of Miss
Anna Granarius, and that he belongs to the sect of reasoning
animals, for whose members she had the greatest esteem.—ED.

Miss Anna Granarius, who was devotedly attached to a poor student, could not help blushing deeply, for her skin was fair and delicate. Anna was the typical {269} heroine of a Scotch novel, the profound depths of her blue eyes almost betokening “Second-sight.” By the candid and caught look of the professor, she perceived he had said one of those foolish things which frequently fall from the lips of scientific dreamers. Leaving her father to follow out his dream on the depravity of human reason, she bent her steps to a favourite spot in the Jardin des Plantes which was closed for the night, as the month was July and the hour half-past eight.

“What does my father mean to say about this Jarpeado who turns his head?” she inwardly inquired, seating herself outside a hothouse. Pretty Anna remained pensively rooted to the seat, while her father, absorbed in his own thoughts, never missed her presence. The maiden was endowed with a highly strung nervous temperament which, had she lived four hundred years ago, would have brought her to the stake in the Place de Grève. But happily for her, she was born in more enlightened times.

II.

That which Prince Jarpeado found most extraordinary in Paris, was himself, like the dodge of Gênes at Versailles. He was undoubtedly a fine fellow, though small, remarkable for the classic beauty of his features. His legs might have been doubtful, a trifle or so bandy, but they were encased in boots garnished with precious stones and fixed up on three sides _a la poulaine_. On his back, as was the usage of Castraine, in his country, he carried a cape which cast into the shade those worn by the ecclesiastics of Charles X. It was covered with aberesques of diamonds on a ground of lapis-lazuli, divided into two equal parts like the two flaps of a trunk. These flaps were fastened by a gold clasp, and displayed like the priestly surplice, in token of dignity, for he was prince of Coccirubri. He wore a pretty necklace of sapphire and two aigrettes infinitely finer than any of the feathers in the caps of European potentates worn on State occasions.

Anna thought him charming, only his two arms were rather short and slender for embracing. This slight defect, however, was carried off by the rich carnation of his royal blood. Anna soon found out what her father meant, by witnessing one of those mysterious things which pass unnoticed in this terrible Paris, at once so full and so empty, so foolish and so wise, so preoccupied and so much on the alert, yet always so fantastic. {270}

III.

The three thousand windows of this glass palace exchanged glances of moonlight so bright that the edifice seemed glowing at a white heat, ablaze with the fire, kindled by the rising orb which so frequently deceives the traveller. The cactus was breathing forth a store of strange odour, the vanilla its sweet perfume. The volcaneria distilled the vinous heat from its tufts, the jessamine exhaled a poetic fragrance, the magnolia intoxicated the air, while the aroma of the datura advanced with the pomp of a Persian king, and the powerful Chinese lily sent her breath onward with an overpowering force that assimilated all the other odours of the flowery scene.

The perfume-laden air stood motionless to feast upon the spectacle presented by a troop of midnight spirits, as they rose from an enchanted spot shaded by a grove of bananas, whose wide-spreading leaves formed a canopy gilded by a phosphorescent light. Soft streams of music floated around, gently awakening the spirits to their nocturnal revels. Suddenly the lights fell on a patch of green cactus, revealing the gay form of Prince Jarpeado exposed to the witchery of the fairy queen and her gorgeous attendants, robed in costumes so aërial as to disclose the full charms of their lovely forms. Phantom-Crickets sang love-ditties in the daintiest retreats, while a choir of winged musicians chanted the praises of the prince, who stood unmoved by the seductive art of this witching band. The passion-imbued glance of the queen fell, shivered against the armour of Jarpeado’s true heart, where, enshrined in all its artless purity, he treasured the image of the fair Anna. The music ceased, and in a silvery voice the queen, radiant with an unearthly beauty, exclaimed—

“Jarpeado! Jarpeado! receive the homage of the fairy queen whose heart thou hast won.”

The moment was enchanting. The perfumed breeze wooed the flushed cheek of the prince, and whispered love. Jarpeado stood irresolute. It was but for an instant, when rousing himself from the subtle influences that were kindling a fire of unworthy passion in his breast, he replied—

“Fair spirit, whose unearthly radiance lays siege to a true heart, and who with cunning and skill have sought out the weak points of my armour, all thine arts, wiles, and hellish tricks can never quench my love for the fair Anna.” {271}

{272}

Scarcely had the last word escaped his lips, when the weird scene was blotted out from his gaze, and a ghastly green light disclosed a slimy waste alive with crawling monads, and all the simplest forms of life. The balmy air was chilled and its fragrance replaced by the noxious breath of animal decay. A flash of lightning and peal of thunder heralded the approach of a monster with mouth wide open, dark and deep as the bottomless pit, his horns erect, his tail fiercely sweeping the waste; onward he came, spreading terror around, and leaving death in his train.

This was the Valvos, which preyed like cholera on the people, but the prince escaped, saved by a fair maiden.

“Daughter of my country!” he exclaimed, “my deliverer, cruel destiny stands between us; I cannot wed thee.”

The scene changed, and Anna was transported unseen to the attic of her lover, the poor pupil of Granarius. Bent over his books, for a moment he raised his head, crying out—

“Oh! if Anna would only wait for me; in three years I shall have the cross of the Legion of Honour. I feel, I know, I shall solve this entomological problem, and succeed in transporting to Algeria the culture of the _Cocus Cacti_. Good heavens! that would be a conquest.”

Anna awoke and found herself in bed, she had dreamed a dream. But who was this Jarpeado of whom her father constantly spoke? She hastened to ask the old professor. It was necessary to be careful, she must watch, and after breakfast seize one of his lucid intervals; for in his normal condition, her father’s mind was absent exploring the fathomless depths of science. Seated at the breakfast table she exclaimed—

“Father!”—just as the professor was putting a spoonful of salt into his coffee—“what are you thinking about?”

“Well, Anna, dear, I was investigating the subject of monads, or rather the nature of these simple inorganic forms, twelve months before birth, and I come to the conclusion that”——

“That my dear father, if you succeed in introducing one of these ridiculous creatures to the scientists of Paris, you will both be decorated. But who, tell me, is this Prince Jarpeado?”

“Prince Jarpeado is the last of the dynasty of the Cactriane,” replied the worthy professor, who employed allegory in addressing his daughter, forgetful that her mind had matured, and she had ceased to play with dolls; “a large country, basking in the sun’s rays, and {274} having a longitude and latitude—matters these you do not comprehend. The country is populous as China, and like that unhappy land, subject to periodical inundations, not of cold water, but of hot water, let loose by the hand of man. This depopulates the land, but nature has so provided that a single prince may alone repair the damage. This reminds me of something I discovered ten years ago in connection with Infusoria, the Rotafera of Cuvier, they”——

“Yes. But the prince, the prince!” cried Anna, fearing lest her father should fall into a reverie and she would hear nothing more.

“The prince,” replied the old professor, giving a touch to his wig, “escaped—thanks to the French Government—from the destroying flood, and he has been brought up without consulting his future, away from his fair realm. He was transported in his undeveloped form to my illustrious predecessor Sacrampe—the inventor of Ducks.

“Jarpeado came here at the request of the Government on a bed of dust, made up of millions of his father’s subjects, embalmed by the Indians of Gualaca, not one of the nymphs of Rubens, not one of Miéris’ pretty girls has been able to dispense with the mummies of this race. Yes, my child, whole populations deck the lips which smile upon or defy you from each canvas. How would you like the freak of some giant painter who would take generations of human beings on his palette, crushing them to produce the colours of an immense fresco? Heaven forbid that it should be so!” Here the professor fell into a profound reverie as was his wont after uttering the word heaven.

The pupil of Granarius, Jules Sauval, entered. If you have ever met one of those modest young fellows devoted to science, knowing much, yet possessing a certain simplicity, which, although charming, does not prevent him from being the most ambitious creature in the world, an innocent who would turn the earth upside down about a hyoïde bone, or a univalve shell. If you have seen a youth of this type, then you know Jules Sauval. He was as candid as he was poor—candour goes when fortune comes.—He venerated Professor Granarius as a father, and admired in him the disciple of the great Geoffroy St. Hilaire. Blessed be science, Jules Sauval would have just been the same, even supposing the professor had no pretty daughter Anna. He was a second Jarpeado alive among the dry bones and débris of antiquity. Just as the _Coccus cacti_—the subjects of Jarpeado—had been crushed to lend a glow of life to the finest works of art, so the young student identified himself with defunct organisms in {275} order that science might all the more faithfully picture the forms and colours of pre-historic life. Like Jarpeado, Jules Sauval had his loves, he admired the fair Anna as a perfect type of a highly-organised sensitive animal—so he said.

In common with the professor he was intent upon uniting this red prince to some analogous creature. The men of science had come down to the level of the members of the Chamber of Deputies, and talked them into erecting a spacious hothouse to contain the finest plants of the tropics. Within its glass walls the illustrious professor has found a solitary living specimen of the _Coccus cacti_—Cochineal—Jarpeado, whose habits they had studied so profoundly as to discover that the prince was endowed with pride of race, and passion of sentiment, opposed to his union with any partner saving a princess of his own vermilion blood.

“Alas! Professor,” exclaimed Jules, “I have just left the glass-house, and all is lost! There is no possibility of uniting Jarpeado to any living creature, he refused the _Coccus ficus caricæ_. I had them under our best microscope.”

“Ah, you horrid creature!” cried Anna. “This is then a prince of the insect world, and yet his history is interesting. I might have known he was no human being, since you say he will die faithful to his first love.”

“Hush, child,” said Granarius, “I fail to note the difference between dying faithful and unfaithful, when it is a question of dying.”

“You will never understand me, sir,” said Anna, in a tone which startled the mild professor, “and as for you, Mr. Jules, all your science and all your charms will never tempt the prince to prove unfaithful. You, sir, shall never be capable of love such as his. A little less science and a trifle more common sense would have suggested keeping him among the dust of his defunct ancestors, where, perchance, he left his living partner, or will find another of red-royal blood.”

The professor and his pupil elated by this marvellous suggestion hastened to replace Jarpeado in the dust from which he had been taken.

Alas! sighed Anna, Jules loves me not, else he would have lingered with me to tell his love. I made the path clear for him. Yet he perceived it not, but has gone with my father to speculate on the introduction of this scarlet _Coccus cacti_ dynasty into Algeria. Following them to the large hothouse in the Jardin des Plantes, Anna {277} observed her father consigning the small paper of _Coccus cacti_ dust into the centre of the first nopal that had flowered.

A jealous Englishman, witness of this scientific operation, remarked in passing, “This old fool uses the plant as a portfolio!”

“Heat the house well,” cried Granarius, as he fell into a profound reverie, leaving his daughter and Jules to talk of love, or science.

“So, Mr. Jules, you have ceased to love me,” said Anna.

“Nay,” replied Jules, “I do not think you do me justice, but I have come to the conclusion that sentiment, or passion, in all animals, follows a fixed natural law, and being divided between two creatures ought to form a perfect equation.”

“Oh, infernal science! thus to bamboozle a poor brain. Probably your sentiments are established on the equation of dowry, and you have yet to learn what love is, Mr. Jules. If you do not take care, science will claim possession, not only of your soul, but of your body, and you will become a beast like Nebuchadnezzar. History relates that he assumed this form because he devoted seven years to zoology in classing the different species, without once pausing to trim his beard. Six hundred years hence it will be said of certain zoologists that they were advanced types of the Orang-outang who stuck up for their race, and for themselves as examples of progression.”

Jules was called away by the professor, while Anna, turning to a huge microscope, beheld a new world of creatures, invisible to the naked eye. There she saw the Volvoce engaged in a steeple-chase, mounted on an animal making for the winning post. Many elegant Cercairæ were on the course, the prize being infinitely superior to that of the Derby; for the winner was to feast on the Vorticella, at once animals and flowers. Neither Bory, Saint Vincent, nor Müller—that immortal Dame—have taken it upon themselves to decide whether the Vorticella is more plant than animal; had they been bolder they might have drawn valuable conclusions from the man vegetable known to coachmen as _melon_.

Anna was soon drawn from the contemplation of this little world to the fortunes of Jarpeado, who, in her vivid imagination, had become the hero of a fairy tale. He had at last discovered the object of his affections in a nursling of his tribe, over whom he watched as she lay in state beneath a perfumed pavilion, awaiting the incarnation common alike to heathen deities and zoological creatures. They were the Paul and Virginia of insect life. The pavilion was guarded by soldiers {279} attired in madder. The prince proved himself a wise general, as well as ardent lover, for in order to protect his domain against a powerful-winged foe called the Muscicapa, he ordered all his intelligent subjects to throw themselves in such numbers on the monster, as to choke him, {280} or else satisfy his hunger. For this service he promised decorations and titles; that was all he had to offer. The breast of Anna was filled with admiration of these cheap and valuable political inventions.

Invisible nuns shrouded the little princess in grey veils, so that nothing but her head was seen as she lay in state, awaiting her new winged life. Anna witnessed the joy of Paul, when, like Venus rising from the waves, Virginia quitted her winding sheet, and like Milton’s Eve—who is a real English Eve—smiled on the light, and looking at Paul, exclaimed, “Oh!”—this superlative of English astonishment. The prince, with a slave’s submission, offered to show the fair one the path of life, across the hills and dales of his empire.

Virginia, growing in loveliness and in the prince’s affections, returned his care with caresses, while Paul ministered to her wants, bringing the ripest fruits for her food; and they at last embarked in a little skiff, on a lake bright as a diamond, and hardly larger than a drop of water. Virginia was arrayed in a bridal robe of brilliant stripes and great richness, her appearance recalling the famous Esmeralda, celebrated by Victor Hugo, only Esmeralda was a woman, and Virginia an angel who would not for all the world have loved a Marshal of the court, far less a Colonel. Her whole affections were consecrated to Jarpeado. Happy pair, thought Anna, but alas! what came of it all? After the wedding came family cares, and a brood destined to make the fame and fortune of her much-loved, but faithless Jules.

A few evenings later, Anna was frowning on her father, and saying to Jules—

“You are no longer faithful to the palm-house, so much gazing on the Cochineal has affected your taste. You are about to marry a red-haired girl, with large feet, without any figure, devoid alike of ideas and manners, freckled. She wears dyed dresses, and will wound your pride twenty times a day, and your ears with her sonatas.”

She opened her piano and began to play with such feeling, that the Spiders remained pensive in their webs on Granarius’ ceiling, and the flowers put their heads in at the window to listen.

“Ah me!” said Anna, “animals have more sense than the wise men who preserve them in glass-cases.”

Jules left the room, sad at heart, for the talent, beauty, and brightness of this good soul was struggling with the concert of vulgar coins which his red-haired bride was bringing to his door. {281}

“Ah!” exclaimed Professor Granarius, “what have we here in the papers? Listen, Anna.

“ ‘Thanks to the efforts of the learned Professor Granarius, assisted by his clever pupil Jules Sauval, ten grains of cochineal have been obtained on the Nopal in the great palm-house. Doubtless this culture will flourish in our African possessions, and will free us from the tribute we pay to the new world. Thus the expense of the great palm-house has been justified—against which opposition was not slow to make itself heard—but the costly structure will yet render many valuable services to French commerce and agriculture. M. J. Sauval is named Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.’ ”

“M. Jules behaves badly to us,” said Anna, “for you have commenced the history of the _Coccus cacti_, and he has impudently taken up”——

“Bah!” said the professor, “he is my pupil.”

{282}

LOVE ADVENTURES OF A FRENCH CAT.

MINETTE TO BÉBÉ.

FIRST LETTER.

“What will you say, my dear Bébé, on receiving this letter from your sister supposed to be dead, for whom you have doubtless wept, as one who is almost forgotten.

“Forgive me, my sister, for supposing that you can ever forget me, although we live in a world where many more than the dead are forgotten.

“First of all I write to tell you I am not dead, that my love for you is as strong as ever, and that I am still animated by the hope of one day rejoining you, alas! my sister, that day may be far distant.

“This evening I thought about our good mother, who was always so kind and careful of our toilet, whose delight it was to watch the flicker of the fire-light on our glossy, silken coats, and to train us in the paths of domestic peace, virtue, and sobriety. I was touchingly reminded of our simple family-life, with its happy days, and innocent frolic, all hallowed by the light of love. Yet the brightness of that light of true hearts casts many dark shadows across my path, shadows of regret for neglected ministries of tenderness to my mother who is now perhaps no more. Above the sentiment that prompts me to write, is the desire to make a regretful confession of the circumstances which separated me from the dear ones at home. {283}

“Silently I took up the pen, and the result is before you. I am bending over my task by the dim light of an alabaster lamp, carefully shaded from the eyes of my sleeping mistress.

“Although I am rich, Bébé, I would rather be poor and happy! Oh, my mistress is waking. I must quickly say good-bye. I have barely time to roll up my letter and push it under the cover of a chair, where it must remain till daybreak. When it is finished I will forward it by one of our attendants who is now waiting on the terrace. He will bring me your reply.

“My mother! my mother! tell me all about her.

“YOUR SISTER.”

“_P.S._—Place confidence in my messenger, he is neither young nor handsome, neither a Spanish Grandee nor a rich Angora, but he is devoted and discreet. He found out your address. He loves me and would do anything for me, so he has become my courier. He is a slave! Do not pity him; the chains of love are his fetters.

{284}

“You must address your letters to Madam Rosa Mika, that is the name I am known under here.

“My mistress is certainly waking up, she sleeps badly, and I dread discovery.

“Again, adieu! In all this scribbling you will recognise more of the heart than the hand of your sister.”

BÉBÉ TO MINETTE.

SECOND LETTER.

“MY DEAR MINETTE,—I thought I should go mad on reading your letter, my joy knew no bounds, and indeed it was shared by all. One would willingly see all one’s relations die, if they all came to life again like you. Ah, Minette, your departure caused us great grief. Were you forced to leave us so long in doubt? If you only knew how everything is changed here since you left. To begin, your mother is deaf and blind, and the poor old creature passes her days at the door, without ever uttering a complaint. When I wished to tell her you were still alive, I could not make her understand, and she could neither read nor see your letter. Her many troubles have told sadly upon her. After you left, she searched everywhere in vain for you, and the loss seems to have undermined her health and left her the wreck I describe.

“Do not grieve too much, old age no doubt must take the lion’s share of blame. Besides, she sleeps, drinks, and eats well; and there is always plenty in the cupboard, as I would rather starve than let her want.

“Our young mistress has lost her mother, so she is more unfortunate than we are, as she has lost everything, except her pretty figure, which does not change.

“It was necessary to leave the little shop in Murais; to give up the ground floor, and all at once mount to the attic, and to work from morning to night, and from night till morning sometimes. But, thank heaven, I have a sure foot, good eye, and am a capital hunter.

“You touchingly remark that you are rich, and would rather sacrifice wealth for happiness. I do not clearly see how I can complain of being poor. How funny you are! you dine at a polished board, off gilded plates, and goodly fare. One would think from your way of putting it, that by stinting one’s self of food, one gets what riches cannot {285} buy. Some wise cat will no doubt prove before long, that poverty is the cure for all evils. Seriously, do you believe that fortune impairs happiness? If that is your creed, become poor at once, ruin yourself! Nothing is easier than that, live by your teeth if you can. Tell me what you think of it. Complain of being unhappy, but not of being rich, for we who are poor are no strangers to misery. I scold you as your elder sister ought to do, so forgive me.

“Do you not know that Bébé would only be too happy to be of some use to you? Do not keep me waiting for another letter. I begin to fear you have been seeking happiness where it can never be found. Of course you will hide nothing from me. Ease your heart and write down your griefs on your perfumed paper, as you proposed. Adieu, Minette, adieu! This is enough, it is the hour for our mother’s meal, and it is yet running about in the loft. Things are not going on well there, the mice are clever, and every day seems to develop new instincts of cunning. We have feasted so long on them, they begin to notice it. My neighbour is a cat, not a bad specimen, were he not so original. He dotes on the mice, and pretends that some day there will be a revolution when mice will be able to hold their own against cats.

“You see I am right in profiting by the peace we now enjoy, hunting at will in their grounds. But do not let us talk politics!

“Adieu, Minette.

“Your messenger is waiting. He refuses to disclose your address. Shall we soon meet each other?

“Your sister till death, “BÉBÉ.”

“_P.S._—I own your old courier is very ugly. For all that, when I saw what he brought, I kissed him with all my heart. You should have seen him bow when he presented the letter from Madam Rosa Mika. Were you out of your mind Minette when you adopted such a name? Was Minette not a charming name for a cat so white as yourself? As I have no more paper, I conclude.”