“Do you wish not to be ‘improper’ in England?” asked Bixiou, addressing Finot.

“Well?”

“Go to the Tuileries and look at a figure there, something like a fireman carved in marble (’Themistocles,’ the statuary calls it), try to walk like the Commandant’s statue, and you will never be ‘improper.’  It was through strict observance of the great law of the improper that Godefroid’s happiness became complete.  There is the story: 

“Beaudenord had a tiger, not a ‘groom,’ as they write that know nothing of society.  The tiger, a diminutive Irish page called Paddy, Toby, Joby (which you please), was three feet in height by twenty inches in breadth, a weasel-faced infant, with nerves of steel tempered in fire-water, and agile as a squirrel.  He drove a landau with a skill never yet at fault in London or Paris.  He had a lizard’s eye, as sharp as my own, and he could mount a horse like the elder Franconi.  With the rosy cheeks and yellow hair of one of Rubens’ Madonnas he was double-faced as a prince, and as knowing as an old attorney; in short, at the age of ten he was nothing more nor less than a blossom of depravity, gambling and swearing, partial to jam and punch, pert as a feuilleton, impudent and light-fingered as any Paris street-arab.  He had been a source of honor and profit to a well-known English lord, for whom he had already won seven hundred thousand francs on the race-course.  The aforesaid nobleman set no small store on Toby.  His tiger was a curiosity, the very smallest tiger in town.  Perched aloft on the back of a thoroughbred, Joby looked like a hawk.  Yet—­the great man dismissed him.  Not for greediness, not for dishonesty, nor murder, nor rudeness to my lady, nor for cutting holes in my lady’s own woman’s pockets, nor because he had been ‘got at’ by some of his master’s rivals on the turf, nor for playing games of a Sunday, nor for bad behavior of any sort or description.  Toby might have done all these things, he might even have spoken to milord before milord spoke to him, and his noble master might, perhaps, have pardoned that breach of the law domestic.  Milord would have put up with a good deal from Toby; he was very fond of him.  Toby could drive a tandem dog-cart, riding on the wheeler, postilion fashion; his legs did not reach the shafts, he looked in fact very much like one of the cherub heads circling about the Eternal Father in old Italian pictures.  But an English journalist wrote a delicious description of the little angel, in the course of which he said that Paddy was quite too pretty for a tiger; in fact, he offered to bet that Paddy was a tame tigress.  The description, on the heads of it, was calculated to poison minds and end in something ‘improper.’  And the superlative of ‘improper’ is the way to the gallows.  Milord’s circumspection was highly approved by my lady.