igo THE FIRESIDE SPHINX 



more frequently occupied by cats than by the august 

 author of &quot; Les Miserables.&quot; If he were well in 

 clined to throne himself, so indeed were they ; and 

 the superior nature of their claims was readily 

 granted by the man in whom their empire kept 

 alive the saving grace of modesty. &quot; When I was 

 young,&quot; says M. Champfleury, &quot; I had the honour 

 of being received by Victor Hugo in a room with 

 a big red dais, on which reposed a cat who seemed 

 to await the homage of visitors. He had a huge 

 ruff of white fur like a Chancellor s tippet, his 

 whiskers resembled those of a Hungarian Magyar, 

 and when he advanced in a stately manner, his 

 brilliant eyes fixed full upon my face, I perceived 

 that he had modelled himself on the poet, and was 

 reflecting the majestic thoughts that seemed to fill 

 the chamber.&quot; 



Did the cat model himself on the poet, or the 

 poet on the cat? When &quot;each seemed either,&quot; it 

 was a difficult matter to decide. 



About the time that Victor Hugo was gathering 

 his first rich crop of laurels, a certain M. Raton 

 unknown to fame published in Paris a very seri 

 ous little treatise, &quot; Sur 1 Education du Chat Domes- 

 tique,&quot; preceded by &quot; Son Histoire Philosophique 

 et Politique,&quot; and followed by an elaborate &quot;Traite- 

 ment de ses Maladies.&quot; It is a book of amazing 

 dulness. M. Raton did not love cats. How could 



