Here was a social crisis.  A little cat of manifestly humble origin, with only an innate sense of propriety to oppose to a coarse-minded magistrate, and a circle of mocking friends.  The judge, imperturbably obtuse, dropped the kitten on the rug, and prepared to resume their former friendly relations.  The kitten did not run away, she did not even walk away; that would have been an admission of defeat.  She sat down very slowly, as if first searching for a particular spot in the intricate pattern of the rug, turned her back upon her former playmate, faced her false friends, and tucked her outraged tail carefully out of sight.  Her aspect was that of a cat alone in a desert land, brooding over the mystery of her nine lives.  In vain the handkerchief was trailed seductively past her little nose, in vain her contrite family spoke words of sweetness and repentance.  She appeared as aloof from her surroundings as if she had been wafted to Arabia; and presently began to wash her face conscientiously and methodically, with the air of one who finds solitude better than the companionship of fools.  Only when the judge had put his silly handkerchief into his pocket, and had strolled into the library under the pretence of hunting for a book which he had never left there, did the kitten close her eyes, lower her obdurate little head, and purr herself tranquilly to sleep.

A few years afterwards I was permitted to witness another silent combat, another signal victory.  This time the cat was, I grieve to say, a member of a troupe of performing animals, exhibited at the Folies-Bergere in Paris.  Her fellow actors, poodles and monkeys, played their parts with relish and a sense of fun.  The cat, a thing apart, condescended to leap twice through a hoop, and to balance herself very prettily on a large rubber ball.  She then retired to the top of a ladder, made a deft and modest toilet, and composed herself for slumber.  Twice the trainer spoke to her persuasively, but she paid no heed, and evinced no further interest in him nor in his entertainment.  Her time for condescension was past.

The next day I commented on the cat’s behaviour to some friends who had also been to the Folies-Bergere on different nights.  “But,” said the first friend, “the evening I went, that cat did wonderful things; came down the ladder on her ball, played the fiddle, and stood on her head.”

“Really,” said the second friend.  “Well, the night I went, she did nothing at all except cuff one of the monkeys that annoyed her.  She just sat on the ladder, and watched the performance.  I presumed she was there by way of decoration.”

All honour to the cat, who, when her little body is enslaved, can still preserve the freedom of her soul.  The dogs and the monkeys obeyed their master; but the cat, like Montaigne’s happier pussy long ago, had “her time to begin or to refuse,” and showman and audience waited upon her will.

THE END