RENAISSANCE 69 



Henry the Third, who had so much affection to 

 spare for little dogs, could not look at a cat without 

 fainting ; and Ronsard confesses that he trembled 

 from head to foot if he met one, even at broad noon. 



&quot; Homme ne vis, qui tant haisse au monde 

 Les Chats que moi d une haine profonde ; 

 Je hais leurs yeux, leur fronts, et leur regard.&quot; 



Other and kinder voices, however, were raised, 

 even at this early date, in defence of Pussy s 

 charms. Joachim du Bellay was the first French 

 poet who sang the praises of his cat, the beau 

 tiful and amiable Belaud ; and Montaigne, in his 

 lazy, luminous fashion, &quot; without a spur or even a 

 pat from Lady Vanity,&quot; wrote more than three 

 hundred years ago the final word upon the subject ; 

 a word which we have been assiduously repeating 

 and amplifying but not improving ever since. 

 &quot; When I play with my cat,&quot; he muses softly, &quot;who 

 knows whether she diverts herself with me, or I 

 with her ! \Ve entertain one another with mutual 

 follies, struggling for a garter ; and, if I have my 

 time to begin or to refuse, she also has hers. It is 

 because I cannot understand her language that we 

 agree no better ; and perhaps she laughs at my sim 

 plicity in making sport to amuse her.&quot; 



This is the whole story of human and feline com 

 panionship. This is the whole nature of the cat, 

 accepted with philosophy, and described with care- 



