. Of course I was an
anthropomorphist, and read a great deal of human nature into them;
otherwise it wouldn't have been such fun. I dragged myself reluctantly
away when I was called to dinner. It was hard that evening to apply
myself to my school-books. Before I went to bed I paid them a parting
visit; they were huddled together in their nest of cotton-wool,
sleeping soundly. And I was up at an unheard-of hour next morning, to
have a bout with them before going to school. I found Alexandre, in
his nightcap and long white apron, occupied with the _soins de
proprete_, as he said. He cleaned out the cage, put in fresh food and
water, and then, pointing to the fat old couple, the grandparents, who
stopped lazily a-bed, sitting up and rubbing their noses together,
whilst their juniors scampered merrily about their affairs, 'Tiens! On
dirait Monsieur et Madame Denis,' he cried. I felt the appositeness of
his allusion; and the old couple were forthwith officially denominated
Monsieur and Madame Denis, for their resemblance to the hero and
heroine of the song--though which was Monsieur, and which Madame, I'm
not sure that I ever clearly knew.

It was a little after this that I was taken for the first time in my
life to the play. I fancy the theatre must have been the Porte St.
Martin; at any rate, it was a theatre in the Boulevard, and towards
the East, for I remember the long drive we had to reach it And the
piece was _The Count of Monte Cristo_. In my memory the adventure
shines, of course, as a vague blur of light and joy; a child's first
visit to the play, and that play _The Count of Monte Cristo_! It was
all the breath-taking pleasantness of romance made visible, audible,
actual. A vague blur of light and joy, from which only two details
separate themselves. First, the prison scene, and an aged man, with a
long white beard, moving a great stone from the wall; then--the figure
of Mercedes. I went home terribly in love with Mercedes. Surely there
are no such _grandes passions_ in maturer life as those helpless,
inarticulate ones we burn in secret with, before our teens; surely we
never love again so violently, desperately, consumedly. Anyhow, I went
home terribly in love with Mercedes. And--do all children lack
humour?--I picked out the prettiest young ladyish-looking mouse in my
collection, cut off her moustaches, adopted her as my especial pet,
and called her by the name of my _dea certe_.

All of my mice by this time ha