THE CAT^ 



Eponine 



Eponine is a small cat, very delicately made. 

 Her eyes have the oblique slant of the Chinese, and 

 are sea-green like the eyes of Pallas Athene; her 

 little velvety nose looks like a fine truffle of Peri- 

 gord; her physiognomy is charmingly expressive; 

 her superb fur is of a deep and lustrous black. 

 Never was cat more nervous, sensitive and sympa- 

 thetic. Never was cat more charged with elec- 

 tricity. If you stroke her smooth back on a winter 

 night, tiny blue sparks flash beneath your hand. 

 She is the soul of hospitality, and delights to re- 

 ceive my visitors, leading the way into the salon, 

 and entertaining them as best she can with polite 

 little sounds, intended for conversation. " Do not 

 be impatient," she tries to say, " Monsieur is com- 

 ing down. Look at the pictures, or, if I amuse 

 you, talk to me." When I enter, she retires dis- 

 creetly to an armchair, or a corner of the piano, 

 and listens to the conversation without interrupting 

 it, as one accustomed from kittenhood to good 

 society. 



At breakfast and at dinner Eponine sits by my 

 side, being permitted, because she is so small, to 

 rest her fore-paws on the extreme edge of the table. 

 She has her own plate and tumbler, and she waits 



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