t grew up, developed into Don Pierrot of
Navarre, which was infinitely more majestic and smacked of a grandee of
Spain.

Don Pierrot, like all animals that are fondled and petted, became
delightfully amiable, and shared the life of the household with that
fulness of satisfaction cats derive from close association with the
fireside. Seated in his customary place, close to the fire, he really
looked as if he understood the conversation and was interested in it.
He followed the speakers with his eyes, and every now and then would
utter a little cry, exactly as if to object and give his own opinion
upon literature, which formed the staple of our talks. He was very fond
of books, and when he found one open on the table, he would lie down by
it, gaze attentively at the page and turn the leaves with his claws;
then he ended by going to sleep, just as if he had really been reading a
fashionable novel. As soon as I picked up my pen, he would leap upon the
desk, and watch attentively the steel nib scribbling away on the paper,
moving his head every time I began a new line. Sometimes he endeavoured
to collaborate with me, and would snatch the pen out of my hand, no
doubt with the intention of writing in his turn, for he was as aesthetic
a cat as Hoffmann's Murr. Indeed, I strongly suspect that he was in the
habit of inditing his memoirs, at night, in some gutter or another, by
the light of his own phosphorescent eyes. Unfortunately, these
lucubrations are lost.

Don Pierrot of Navarre always sat up at night until I came home, waiting
for me on the inside of the door, and as soon as I stepped into the
antechamber he would come rubbing himself against my legs, arching his
back and purring in gladsome, friendly fashion. Then he would start to
walk in front of me, preceding me like a page, and I am sure that if I
had asked him to do so, he would have carried my candle. In this way he
would escort me to my bedroom, wait until I had undressed, jump up on
the bed, put his paws round my neck, rub his nose against mine, lick me
with his tiny red tongue, rough as a file, and utter little inarticulate
cries by way of expressing unmistakably the pleasure he felt at seeing
me again. When he had sufficiently caressed me and it was time to sleep
he used to perch upon the backboard of his bed and slept there like a
bird roosting on a branch. As soon as I woke in the morning, he would
come and stretch out beside me until I rose.

Midnight was t