AFOXIN ATRAP.THE following story was found among the papers of a distinguished “Orang-Outan” member of theAcademies:—“No, decidedly not!” I cried; “it shall never be said that I chose for the hero of my tale a cowardly, sneaking, voracious brute, whose name has become synonymous with cunning, hypocrisy, and knavery—a fox, in fact.”“You are wrong,” replied one whose presence I had overlooked.I must tell you that my lonely hours had been beguiled by a creature of a species hitherto undescribed by the naturalist, who performed slight services, and was at that moment engaged in arranging the books in my library. The reader will no doubt be surprised to learn that an orang-outan—literally, man of the woods or wilds—possessed a library. His astonishment will be still greater when he is informed that the chief works in my collection were penned by philosophic apes, and that most of them contain elaborate disquisitions on the descent of apes from the human species. This by the way.Perhaps the dependant who addressed me would be called a “familiar spirit.” Although spirits are not totally unknown, I am unacquainted with those of the familiar type; I will therefore, with your leave, name this one Breloque.“You are wrong,” he repeated.“Why?” I indignantly inquired. “Will your love of paradox tempt you to defend the cursed, corrupted race?”“I think,” replied Breloque, leaning on the table with an air of arrogance most ludicrous to behold, “that bad reputations, as well asgood ones, are sometimes usurped, and that the species in question, or at least one example with whom I became acquainted, is the victim of an error of this sort.”“So then,” I said, “you are speaking from personal experience?”“Quite so, sir; and were it not that I fear wasting your precious moments, I would try and convince you of your error.”“I am willing to listen, but what will the result be?”“Nothing.”“That is satisfactory. Sit down in this arm-chair, and should I go to sleep, do not stop, I pray you, as that would awake me.”After taking a pinch of snuff from my box, Breloque, nothing loath, commencedthus:—“You are fully aware, sir, that notwithstanding the affection which attaches me to your person, I have never submitted to the slavery that would have been distasteful to both. I have my leisure hours, when I think of many things; just as you have yours, when you think of nothing. Oh, I have many ways of passing my time. Have you ever been out fishing with the line?”“Yes,” I replied; “that is to say, I often used to go in a costume expressly suited to fishing, and sit from sunrise to sunset on the borders of a stream. I had a superb rod mounted with silver, like an Oriental weapon, but without its danger. Alas! I have passedmany sweet hours, and made many bad verses, but I never caught a single fish.”“Angling, sir, appeals to the imagination in your case, and has nothing to do with the happiness of the true angler. Few persons are so framed as to appreciate the charms of which you speak. Your mind, filled with dreamy, vague hope, follows the soft motion of the transparent water, marks and profits by the events of the insect world that clouds its clear face. To the fisher of poetic mind the capture of one of the silver dwellers in the stream can only bring regret, remorse.”I made a sign of assent.“Yet,” he continued, “few persons regard the sport in this light.”“That is true,” I replied.Breloque, unaccustomed to find one entering so fully into his views, felt flattered.“Sir,” he said in a tone marked by perfect self-satisfaction, “I have thought deeply on subjects most profound, and I feel convinced, if the world would only give me a fair hearing, I could earn a wide reputation—nor would it be a borrowed one.”“Apropos of borrowed fame, let us hear the history of your fox. You abuse the privilege granted by thus trifling with my patience.”“Ah, sir, you misjudge me. This is only a subtle, roundabout way of leading your mind up to the theme. I am now all for you, and will only permit myself to put one question—What do you think of butterfly-catching?”“Wretch!” I exclaimed, “am I here to discuss the fortunes of all created things before the one which occupies me? You forget the hatred that fills my breast, the mask of hypocrisy which the fox craftily assumes to attract tender chickens, lambs, doves, and his thousand victims.”“What calumnies!” replied Breloque. “I hope to avenge the fox of all his enemies by proving that in love he is stupid, unselfish, and tender-hearted. For the moment I have the honour of returning to the butterfly-hunt.”I made an impatient gesture, to which he replied with such a look of supplication that I was completely disarmed. Besides, I had the imprudence to let him see that the exciting pastime interested me.Breloque satisfied, took a second pinch of snuff, and half lay down in his arm-chair.“I am happy, sir,” he said, “to see you take delight in the truly worthy pleasures of life. Can you point out a being more to be envied or recommended to the consideration of his fellow-creatures than the one we encounter early in the morning, joyous and breathless, beating the long grass with his stick? In his button-hole hung a bit of cork armed with long pins used to spike—without pain—his lovely victims. He soothes himself with the notion that these little insects, brought by the zephyrs, cannot suffer pain, as they never utter a complaint. For my part, I think the butterflies rather enjoy the prospect of being dried like mummies, and displayed in choice collections. But we are off the line of our subject.”“You are right for once,” I said.“I shall return to it. As speaking in general terms pains you, I will talk of my own experiences in the field. One day, when carried away by the ardour of the hunt. It is altogether different from fishing, of which we were just talking.”I rose to go, but he quietly made me resume my seat.“Do not be impatient. I only spoke of fishing as a comparison, for you to note the difference. Fishing with bait requires the most perfect rest, while the hunt, on the contrary, demands activity.”“You have fairly caught me and pinned me down,” I replied, laughing.“That is a cruel remark; but I shall now be careful to stick to my narrative. You are as capricious as the gay butterfly I was engaged in pursuing. He was a marvellousApollonin the mountains of Franche Compté. I stopped quite out of breath in a little glade into which he had led me, thinking he would profit by this moment to escape; but, either from sheer insolence or frolic, he alighted on a long stem of grass, which bent under his weight, seeming to set me at defiance. Collecting all my energy, I determined to surprise him. I approached with stealthy steps, my eyes riveted on him, my legs strained in an attitude as uncomfortable as it was undignified, my heart swelling with an emotion more easily imagined than described. At this moment a horrid cock crowed lustily, and away flew my coveted prize. Inconsolable, I down upon a stone and expended my remaining breath in heaping invective on the head of my musical enemy, menacing him with every kind of death, and Iown, to my horror, even mentioning a poisoned pill. I was delighting in guilty preparations to carry my threats into effect, when a paw was placed on my arm, and I beheld two soft eyes looking into mine, those of a young fox, sir, of charming form. All his externals were in his favour, betokening a loyal noble character. Although you yourself are against his species, I somehow contracted a liking for the fox before me. This modest animal heard my menaces against the cock.“ ‘Do not give way to passion, sir,’ he said in such a sad tone that I was moved even to tears. ‘She would die of grief.’“I did not quite understand. ‘Who do you mean?’ I inquired.“ ‘Cocotte!’ he replied with sweet simplicity.“I felt still in the dark; yet conjectured it was some love story. I have always been passionately fond of romance, and you?”“That depends entirely on circumstances.”“Say at once you detest love tales. However, you must resign yourself to hearing this one.”“I should name my objections at once, were I not afraid of wounding your feelings, so I prefer bravely taking my part and listening to your story; ennui does not kill.”“So it is said, yet I have known people who have almost succumbed to ennui. But to return to the fox.“ ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you interest me deeply. You seem unhappy. Can I serve you in any way?’“ ‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘my grief must remain unalleviated. No one has the power to make her return my love.’“ ‘Cocotte?’ I said quietly.“ ‘Cocotte,’ he replied, sighing.“The greatest service one can render a disconsolate lover, next to destroying him, is to listen to him. He is happy while recounting his troubles. Knowing the truth of this, I asked and obtained his confidence.“ ‘Sir,’ said this interesting quadruped, ‘since you wish me to relate some of the incidents of my life, I must go back several years, as my misfortunes commenced with my birth. I owe my introduction into life to one of the choicest foxes of the time. For all that, I am happy to say I inherit almost nothing of the subtle nature of my parents. My utter abhorrence of their ways inspired me with tastes opposed tothe interest of my family. A large dog with whom I became acquainted taught me to befriend the weak and helpless. Many hours have I spent, not only listening to his counsel, but observing how careful he was to put his virtuous maxims into practice. He won my gratitude by saving my life. A country steward caught me in hismaster’s vineyard beneath a vine, where I had taken shelter from the heat of the sun, after quenching my thirst with a grape. I was ignominiously arrested and brought before the proprietor, a “justice of the peace,” whose fierce aspect did not calm my fears. But this powerful, superb animal proved most kind; he forgave me, admitted me to his table, where, in addition to more substantial fare, I was fed on the precepts of virtue and morality. To him I owe the sensibility of my heart, the culture of my mind, and even the pleasure of being able to relate my experience in intelligible language. Numerous griefs and wrongs chequered my existence up to the fatal hour when, like Romeo, I gave my heart to a creature from whom our family feuds seemed to have parted me for ever. Less fortunate than Romeo, I was not loved in return.’“ ‘Who,’ I said, ‘is the fair charmer so insensible to your love? Who is the lover preferred before you?’“ ‘The charming one,’ he replied with humility, ‘is a hen, and my rival a cock.’“I was confounded. ‘Sir,’ at last I said to him, ‘do not for an instant attribute my remarks to our newly-formed friendship. I for one have always looked with scorn and contempt on individuals of this vain type. What more stupidly pretentious, what more ridiculous than a cock, whose stiff strut of pride causes him to stumble in his sublimest moods? The unbridled pomp and vanity of the cock renders him the meanest and most ridiculous of birds.’“ ‘There are many hens, sir, who are not of your opinion,’ said my young friend, sighing. ‘Alas! the love of Cocotte is a proof of the value of a picturesque physique coupled with bold assurance. I hoped that my boundless devotion would one day be rewarded by her love. I had spiritualised an attachment which generally displays itself in a rather material fashion when the fox woos the hen. But happy love knows no pity! Cocotte saw me suffer without remorse. My rival enjoyed my troubles, for in the game of insolence and fatuity he has no rival. My friends scorned and abandoned me, and, to crown all, my noble protector ended his days in an honourable retreat. Alone now, I would feel wretched but for the memory of this fatal passion, which has still its inexplicable charm. I am bound to Cocotte, and to the end of my days must defend her against my fellows, and wear the chains she has coiled around me. I would die happy if only I couldprove to her that I am not unworthy of her pity! You are so indulgent, sir, I venture to think that the circumstances which introduced me to Cocotte may not be indifferent to you. I first beheld her during a blood conventicle held last summer, at which I unwillingly assisted. It was through my father’s influence that I was admitted. I was detested by my friends, and could take no part in eating feathered creatures like the one I loved. A number of my relations had agreed among themselves to seize a farmyard during the absence of the master and dogs. You may descry the house not far from here. The most careful preparations, such as would make your hair stand on end—(pardon me, I did not notice your wig)—were made for a general slaughter of the dwellers in the yard. In spite of my tender heart I lent myself with a rather good grace to aid in carrying out their schemes. It may have been with some touch of pride more worthy of men than foxes, I felt prepared to prove, dreamer as I was, that in the hour of danger I could be trusted. The plot, the memory of which makes me shudder, did not seem at all odious at the time. At last, under cover of night, we made a triumphant entry into the ill-defended yard. Our victims were asleep—hens go to roost early. One only remained watching—that was Cocotte. The first glance of her fair form floored me—to make use of a vulgar phrase. Here I was, a fox in love. I breathed soft words to the night air; she listened to me as one accustomed to homage. I retired to devise some means of saving her. Do not fail to note that my love began in an unselfish thought. This is so rare as to be worthy of special remark. When I approached the bloodthirsty foxes, I advised them to begin decently and in order by devouring the eggs. My proposal was adopted by a large majority. Thus gaining time to reflect, I had decided on nothing when I had to mount guard; the thought then flashed across my mind that a false alarm would save my darling, I at once cried, “Flee who may!” Most of the robbers were already laden with spoil, some had nothing, yet they fled, all of them, leaving me master of the field. The cock awoke, and discovering that his harem had been invaded, crowed lustily, compelling me to retreat. I kept watch over that farmyard for many days, but could never win a kind look from Cocotte, who, although frequently beaten by her unfaithful lord, seemed daily to grow fonder of his society. Nevertheless, I would not have tried togain her love by unveiling the character of my rival, and depriving her of her dearest illusions.’“ ‘The image of my old instructor often rises before me, and I feel,while he raised me out of my own level by education, he rendered me more unhappy than the most ignorant and besotted of my kind. What more can I say? the incidents of an unrequited love are so few that I am surprised at the brevity of my tale when recalling the misery of my life. Now, I shall leave you, the sun is going down; thinkof me, sir, when you hear it said that foxes are wicked. Do not forget that you have met a kindly-disposed, sensitive, and therefore miserable fox.’ ”“Is that all?” I said.“Of course,” replied Breloque, “unless the interest you feel in my story prompts you to inquire what became of the different personages.”“Interest never prompts me to do anything,” I replied; “I like everything to be in its proper place. It is therefore better to know what the characters are now doing, than to risk meeting them in places where they are least expected.”“The fox,” continued Breloque, “came across our common enemy. One day venturing to carry off Cocotte, he was shot by the farmer, who hung his tail up as a trophy.”“What became of the cock?”“Listen; he is crowing, the cowardly, stupid, selfish rascal!”“Have you not for the fox the same hatred I have for the cock?”“Do not deceive yourself; the fox was the craftiest rogue you ever met. Had he succeeded in deluding the farmer as he deceived you, his thirst would have been slaked with the blood of Cocotte. He would have proved as benevolent as a Bashi-Bazouk in Bulgaria.”“I don’t doubt that,” said Breloque, “but I am sorry for it.”
T
HE following story was found among the papers of a distinguished “Orang-Outan” member of theAcademies:—
“No, decidedly not!” I cried; “it shall never be said that I chose for the hero of my tale a cowardly, sneaking, voracious brute, whose name has become synonymous with cunning, hypocrisy, and knavery—a fox, in fact.”
“You are wrong,” replied one whose presence I had overlooked.
I must tell you that my lonely hours had been beguiled by a creature of a species hitherto undescribed by the naturalist, who performed slight services, and was at that moment engaged in arranging the books in my library. The reader will no doubt be surprised to learn that an orang-outan—literally, man of the woods or wilds—possessed a library. His astonishment will be still greater when he is informed that the chief works in my collection were penned by philosophic apes, and that most of them contain elaborate disquisitions on the descent of apes from the human species. This by the way.
Perhaps the dependant who addressed me would be called a “familiar spirit.” Although spirits are not totally unknown, I am unacquainted with those of the familiar type; I will therefore, with your leave, name this one Breloque.
“You are wrong,” he repeated.
“Why?” I indignantly inquired. “Will your love of paradox tempt you to defend the cursed, corrupted race?”
“I think,” replied Breloque, leaning on the table with an air of arrogance most ludicrous to behold, “that bad reputations, as well asgood ones, are sometimes usurped, and that the species in question, or at least one example with whom I became acquainted, is the victim of an error of this sort.”
“So then,” I said, “you are speaking from personal experience?”
“Quite so, sir; and were it not that I fear wasting your precious moments, I would try and convince you of your error.”
“I am willing to listen, but what will the result be?”
“Nothing.”
“That is satisfactory. Sit down in this arm-chair, and should I go to sleep, do not stop, I pray you, as that would awake me.”
After taking a pinch of snuff from my box, Breloque, nothing loath, commencedthus:—
“You are fully aware, sir, that notwithstanding the affection which attaches me to your person, I have never submitted to the slavery that would have been distasteful to both. I have my leisure hours, when I think of many things; just as you have yours, when you think of nothing. Oh, I have many ways of passing my time. Have you ever been out fishing with the line?”
“Yes,” I replied; “that is to say, I often used to go in a costume expressly suited to fishing, and sit from sunrise to sunset on the borders of a stream. I had a superb rod mounted with silver, like an Oriental weapon, but without its danger. Alas! I have passedmany sweet hours, and made many bad verses, but I never caught a single fish.”
“Angling, sir, appeals to the imagination in your case, and has nothing to do with the happiness of the true angler. Few persons are so framed as to appreciate the charms of which you speak. Your mind, filled with dreamy, vague hope, follows the soft motion of the transparent water, marks and profits by the events of the insect world that clouds its clear face. To the fisher of poetic mind the capture of one of the silver dwellers in the stream can only bring regret, remorse.”
I made a sign of assent.
“Yet,” he continued, “few persons regard the sport in this light.”
“That is true,” I replied.
Breloque, unaccustomed to find one entering so fully into his views, felt flattered.
“Sir,” he said in a tone marked by perfect self-satisfaction, “I have thought deeply on subjects most profound, and I feel convinced, if the world would only give me a fair hearing, I could earn a wide reputation—nor would it be a borrowed one.”
“Apropos of borrowed fame, let us hear the history of your fox. You abuse the privilege granted by thus trifling with my patience.”
“Ah, sir, you misjudge me. This is only a subtle, roundabout way of leading your mind up to the theme. I am now all for you, and will only permit myself to put one question—What do you think of butterfly-catching?”
“Wretch!” I exclaimed, “am I here to discuss the fortunes of all created things before the one which occupies me? You forget the hatred that fills my breast, the mask of hypocrisy which the fox craftily assumes to attract tender chickens, lambs, doves, and his thousand victims.”
“What calumnies!” replied Breloque. “I hope to avenge the fox of all his enemies by proving that in love he is stupid, unselfish, and tender-hearted. For the moment I have the honour of returning to the butterfly-hunt.”
I made an impatient gesture, to which he replied with such a look of supplication that I was completely disarmed. Besides, I had the imprudence to let him see that the exciting pastime interested me.
Breloque satisfied, took a second pinch of snuff, and half lay down in his arm-chair.
“I am happy, sir,” he said, “to see you take delight in the truly worthy pleasures of life. Can you point out a being more to be envied or recommended to the consideration of his fellow-creatures than the one we encounter early in the morning, joyous and breathless, beating the long grass with his stick? In his button-hole hung a bit of cork armed with long pins used to spike—without pain—his lovely victims. He soothes himself with the notion that these little insects, brought by the zephyrs, cannot suffer pain, as they never utter a complaint. For my part, I think the butterflies rather enjoy the prospect of being dried like mummies, and displayed in choice collections. But we are off the line of our subject.”
“You are right for once,” I said.
“I shall return to it. As speaking in general terms pains you, I will talk of my own experiences in the field. One day, when carried away by the ardour of the hunt. It is altogether different from fishing, of which we were just talking.”
I rose to go, but he quietly made me resume my seat.
“Do not be impatient. I only spoke of fishing as a comparison, for you to note the difference. Fishing with bait requires the most perfect rest, while the hunt, on the contrary, demands activity.”
“You have fairly caught me and pinned me down,” I replied, laughing.
“That is a cruel remark; but I shall now be careful to stick to my narrative. You are as capricious as the gay butterfly I was engaged in pursuing. He was a marvellousApollonin the mountains of Franche Compté. I stopped quite out of breath in a little glade into which he had led me, thinking he would profit by this moment to escape; but, either from sheer insolence or frolic, he alighted on a long stem of grass, which bent under his weight, seeming to set me at defiance. Collecting all my energy, I determined to surprise him. I approached with stealthy steps, my eyes riveted on him, my legs strained in an attitude as uncomfortable as it was undignified, my heart swelling with an emotion more easily imagined than described. At this moment a horrid cock crowed lustily, and away flew my coveted prize. Inconsolable, I down upon a stone and expended my remaining breath in heaping invective on the head of my musical enemy, menacing him with every kind of death, and Iown, to my horror, even mentioning a poisoned pill. I was delighting in guilty preparations to carry my threats into effect, when a paw was placed on my arm, and I beheld two soft eyes looking into mine, those of a young fox, sir, of charming form. All his externals were in his favour, betokening a loyal noble character. Although you yourself are against his species, I somehow contracted a liking for the fox before me. This modest animal heard my menaces against the cock.
“ ‘Do not give way to passion, sir,’ he said in such a sad tone that I was moved even to tears. ‘She would die of grief.’
“I did not quite understand. ‘Who do you mean?’ I inquired.
“ ‘Cocotte!’ he replied with sweet simplicity.
“I felt still in the dark; yet conjectured it was some love story. I have always been passionately fond of romance, and you?”
“That depends entirely on circumstances.”
“Say at once you detest love tales. However, you must resign yourself to hearing this one.”
“I should name my objections at once, were I not afraid of wounding your feelings, so I prefer bravely taking my part and listening to your story; ennui does not kill.”
“So it is said, yet I have known people who have almost succumbed to ennui. But to return to the fox.
“ ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you interest me deeply. You seem unhappy. Can I serve you in any way?’
“ ‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘my grief must remain unalleviated. No one has the power to make her return my love.’
“ ‘Cocotte?’ I said quietly.
“ ‘Cocotte,’ he replied, sighing.
“The greatest service one can render a disconsolate lover, next to destroying him, is to listen to him. He is happy while recounting his troubles. Knowing the truth of this, I asked and obtained his confidence.
“ ‘Sir,’ said this interesting quadruped, ‘since you wish me to relate some of the incidents of my life, I must go back several years, as my misfortunes commenced with my birth. I owe my introduction into life to one of the choicest foxes of the time. For all that, I am happy to say I inherit almost nothing of the subtle nature of my parents. My utter abhorrence of their ways inspired me with tastes opposed tothe interest of my family. A large dog with whom I became acquainted taught me to befriend the weak and helpless. Many hours have I spent, not only listening to his counsel, but observing how careful he was to put his virtuous maxims into practice. He won my gratitude by saving my life. A country steward caught me in hismaster’s vineyard beneath a vine, where I had taken shelter from the heat of the sun, after quenching my thirst with a grape. I was ignominiously arrested and brought before the proprietor, a “justice of the peace,” whose fierce aspect did not calm my fears. But this powerful, superb animal proved most kind; he forgave me, admitted me to his table, where, in addition to more substantial fare, I was fed on the precepts of virtue and morality. To him I owe the sensibility of my heart, the culture of my mind, and even the pleasure of being able to relate my experience in intelligible language. Numerous griefs and wrongs chequered my existence up to the fatal hour when, like Romeo, I gave my heart to a creature from whom our family feuds seemed to have parted me for ever. Less fortunate than Romeo, I was not loved in return.’
“ ‘Who,’ I said, ‘is the fair charmer so insensible to your love? Who is the lover preferred before you?’
“ ‘The charming one,’ he replied with humility, ‘is a hen, and my rival a cock.’
“I was confounded. ‘Sir,’ at last I said to him, ‘do not for an instant attribute my remarks to our newly-formed friendship. I for one have always looked with scorn and contempt on individuals of this vain type. What more stupidly pretentious, what more ridiculous than a cock, whose stiff strut of pride causes him to stumble in his sublimest moods? The unbridled pomp and vanity of the cock renders him the meanest and most ridiculous of birds.’
“ ‘There are many hens, sir, who are not of your opinion,’ said my young friend, sighing. ‘Alas! the love of Cocotte is a proof of the value of a picturesque physique coupled with bold assurance. I hoped that my boundless devotion would one day be rewarded by her love. I had spiritualised an attachment which generally displays itself in a rather material fashion when the fox woos the hen. But happy love knows no pity! Cocotte saw me suffer without remorse. My rival enjoyed my troubles, for in the game of insolence and fatuity he has no rival. My friends scorned and abandoned me, and, to crown all, my noble protector ended his days in an honourable retreat. Alone now, I would feel wretched but for the memory of this fatal passion, which has still its inexplicable charm. I am bound to Cocotte, and to the end of my days must defend her against my fellows, and wear the chains she has coiled around me. I would die happy if only I couldprove to her that I am not unworthy of her pity! You are so indulgent, sir, I venture to think that the circumstances which introduced me to Cocotte may not be indifferent to you. I first beheld her during a blood conventicle held last summer, at which I unwillingly assisted. It was through my father’s influence that I was admitted. I was detested by my friends, and could take no part in eating feathered creatures like the one I loved. A number of my relations had agreed among themselves to seize a farmyard during the absence of the master and dogs. You may descry the house not far from here. The most careful preparations, such as would make your hair stand on end—(pardon me, I did not notice your wig)—were made for a general slaughter of the dwellers in the yard. In spite of my tender heart I lent myself with a rather good grace to aid in carrying out their schemes. It may have been with some touch of pride more worthy of men than foxes, I felt prepared to prove, dreamer as I was, that in the hour of danger I could be trusted. The plot, the memory of which makes me shudder, did not seem at all odious at the time. At last, under cover of night, we made a triumphant entry into the ill-defended yard. Our victims were asleep—hens go to roost early. One only remained watching—that was Cocotte. The first glance of her fair form floored me—to make use of a vulgar phrase. Here I was, a fox in love. I breathed soft words to the night air; she listened to me as one accustomed to homage. I retired to devise some means of saving her. Do not fail to note that my love began in an unselfish thought. This is so rare as to be worthy of special remark. When I approached the bloodthirsty foxes, I advised them to begin decently and in order by devouring the eggs. My proposal was adopted by a large majority. Thus gaining time to reflect, I had decided on nothing when I had to mount guard; the thought then flashed across my mind that a false alarm would save my darling, I at once cried, “Flee who may!” Most of the robbers were already laden with spoil, some had nothing, yet they fled, all of them, leaving me master of the field. The cock awoke, and discovering that his harem had been invaded, crowed lustily, compelling me to retreat. I kept watch over that farmyard for many days, but could never win a kind look from Cocotte, who, although frequently beaten by her unfaithful lord, seemed daily to grow fonder of his society. Nevertheless, I would not have tried togain her love by unveiling the character of my rival, and depriving her of her dearest illusions.’
“ ‘The image of my old instructor often rises before me, and I feel,while he raised me out of my own level by education, he rendered me more unhappy than the most ignorant and besotted of my kind. What more can I say? the incidents of an unrequited love are so few that I am surprised at the brevity of my tale when recalling the misery of my life. Now, I shall leave you, the sun is going down; thinkof me, sir, when you hear it said that foxes are wicked. Do not forget that you have met a kindly-disposed, sensitive, and therefore miserable fox.’ ”
“Is that all?” I said.
“Of course,” replied Breloque, “unless the interest you feel in my story prompts you to inquire what became of the different personages.”
“Interest never prompts me to do anything,” I replied; “I like everything to be in its proper place. It is therefore better to know what the characters are now doing, than to risk meeting them in places where they are least expected.”
“The fox,” continued Breloque, “came across our common enemy. One day venturing to carry off Cocotte, he was shot by the farmer, who hung his tail up as a trophy.”
“What became of the cock?”
“Listen; he is crowing, the cowardly, stupid, selfish rascal!”
“Have you not for the fox the same hatred I have for the cock?”
“Do not deceive yourself; the fox was the craftiest rogue you ever met. Had he succeeded in deluding the farmer as he deceived you, his thirst would have been slaked with the blood of Cocotte. He would have proved as benevolent as a Bashi-Bazouk in Bulgaria.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said Breloque, “but I am sorry for it.”