THE CAT= 



plotting mischief. The cat's eyes were all this 

 time fixed upon the bird with terrible intensity, and 

 they said in a language which the poor parrot but 

 too plainly understood : " Green though it be, 

 this chicken is doubtless very good to eat." 



We watched the little drama with interest, ready 

 to intervene at need. Madame Theophile crept 

 slowly, almost imperceptibly, forward. Her pink 

 nose quivered, her eyes were half closed, her claws 

 moved in and out of their soft sheaths, little tre- 

 mors of rapture ran along her spine. She was like 

 an epicure sitting down to a chicken and truffles. 

 Such novel and exotic fare tempted her gluttony. 



Suddenly her back bent like a bow, and with a 

 vigorous spring she leaped upon the perch. The 

 parrot, seeing the imminence of his peril, cried in 

 a voice as deep and vibrating as M. Prudhomme's : 

 " Hast thou breakfasted, Jaequot ? " 



This utterance so terrified the cat that she fell 

 backwards. The blare of a trumpet, the crash of 

 crockery, the report of a pistol could not have 

 made her more dizzy with fright. All her ornitho- 

 logical theories were overthrown. 



" And on what ? On the king's roast ? " con- 

 tinued the parrot. 



Then we, the observers, read in the expressive 

 countenance of Madame Theophile : " This is not 

 a bird ; it speaks ; it is a gentleman." 



Menagerie Intime, Theophile Gautiee. 

 143 



