THE CAT= 



more than half suspect him of composing a volume 

 of memoirs, scribbling feverishly at night in some 

 remote gutter by the light of his own gleaming 

 eyes. Alas, that such compositions should have 

 been lost forever ! 



Don Pierrot never went to bed until I came home 

 at night. I found him always waiting for me at 

 the door, and he received me with enthusiasm, rub- 

 bing himself against my legs, arching his back, and 

 purring a loud welcome. Then he would stalk be- 

 fore me like a groom of the chamber, prepared no 

 doubt to carry my candle had I entrusted it to him. 

 He slept on the headboard of my bed, perched 

 safely like a bird on a bough; but in the early 

 morning would descend from this lofty station, and 

 lie patiently by my side until it was time to get up. 



On one point Pierrot was inflexible. Like the 

 concierge, he considered that midnight was quite 

 late enough for me to be abroad. It so happened, 

 however, that the little club known as the " Society 

 of the Four Candles," because four candles in four 

 silver candlesticks lit up the four corners of the 

 table, was formed about this time ; and our discus- 

 sions were often so prolonged and so engrossing 

 that, like Cinderella, we took no count of the hour. 

 For several nights Pierrot waited up for me until 

 two o'clock; then, seriously concerned, he marked 



99 



