he latest time allowed for my return home. On this point
Pierrot was as inflexible as a janitor. Now, at that time I had founded,
along with a few friends, a little evening reunion called "The Four
Candles Society," the place of meeting happening to be lighted by four
candles stuck in silver candlesticks placed at each corner of the table.
Occasionally the conversation became so absorbing that I would forget
the time, even at the risk of seeing, like Cinderella, my carriage turn
into a pumpkin and my coachman into a big rat. Twice or thrice Pierrot
sat up for me until two o'clock in the morning, but presently he took
offence at my conduct and went to bed without waiting for me. I was
touched by this mute protest against my innocently disorderly way of
life, and thereafter I regularly returned home at midnight. Pierrot,
however, proved hard to win back; he wanted to make sure that my
repentance was no mere passing matter, but once he was convinced that I
had really reformed, he deigned to restore me to his good graces and
again took up his nightly post in the antechamber.

It is no easy matter to win a cat's love, for cats are philosophical,
sedate, quiet animals, fond of their own way, liking cleanliness and
order, and not apt to bestow their affection hastily. They are quite
willing to be friends, if you prove worthy of their friendship, but they
decline to be slaves. They are affectionate, but they exercise free
will, and will not do for you what they consider to be unreasonable.
Once, however, they have bestowed their friendship, their trust is
absolute, and their affection most faithful. They become one's
companions in hours of solitude, sadness, and labour. A cat will stay on
your knees a whole evening, purring away, happy in your company and
careless of that of its own species. In vain do mewings sound on the
roofs, inviting it to one of the cat parties where red herring brine
takes the place of tea; it is not to be tempted and spends the evening
with you. If you put it down, it is back in a jiffy with a kind of
cooing that sounds like a gentle reproach. Sometimes, sitting up in
front of you, it looks at you so softly, so tenderly, so caressingly,
and in so human a way that it is almost terrifying, for it is impossible
to believe that there is no mind back of those eyes.

Don Pierrot of Navarre had a mate of the same breed just as white as
himself. All the expressions I have accumulated in the "Symphony in
White