tle cat which Dr. Daoud brought back from Egypt,
and of which I am very fond. Treat him well for my sake, Baudelaire, the
greatest French poet after Stephane Mallarme, has said:

"The ardent lover and the unbending sage,
Alike companion in their ripe old age,
With the sleek arrogant cat, the household's pride,
Slothful and chilly by the warm fireside.'{*}

* "Les amoureux fervents et les savants austeres
Aiment egalement, dans leur mure saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sedentaires."

"I need hardly remind you that you must write me a story. Bring it on
Twelfth Night. We will dine together.

"Annie Morgan.

"P.S.--Your little cat's name is Porou."

Having read this letter, I looked at Porou who, standing on his hind
legs, was licking the black face of Pasht, his divine sister. He
looked at me, and I must confess that of the two of us he was the less
astonished. I asked myself, "What does this mean?" But I soon gave up
trying to understand.

"It is expecting too much of myself to try and discover reason in the
follies of this madcap," I thought. "I must get to work again. As for
this little animal, Madam Magloire my housekeeper can provide for his
needs."

Whereupon I resumed my work on a chronology, all the more interesting as
it gave me the opportunity to abuse somewhat my distinguished colleague,
Monsieur Maspero. Porou did not leave my table. Seated on his haunches,
his ears pricked, he watched me write, and strange to say I accomplished
no good work that day. My ideas were all in confusion; there came to my
mind scraps of songs and odds and ends of fairy-tales, and I went to
bed very dissatisfied with myself. The next morning I again found Porou,
seated on my writing-table, licking his paws. That day again I worked
very badly; Porou and I spent the greater part of the day watching each
other. The next morning it was the same, and also the morning after;
in short, the whole week. I ought to have been distressed, but I must
confess that little by little I began to resign myself to my ill-luck,
not only with patience, but even with some amusement. The rapidity with
which a virtuous man becomes depraved is something terrible. The morning
preceding Twelfth Night, which fell on a Sunday, I rose in high spirits
and hurried to my writing-table, where, according to his custom, Porou,
had already preceded me. I