ready
overworked. Dumas got his 'Christine' acted at last. Then broke out
the Revolution of 1830. Dumas's description of his activity is "as
good as a novel," but too long and varied for condensation. It seems
better to give this extract about his life of poverty before his
mother died, before fame visited him. (I quote Miss Cheape's
translation of the passage included in her 'Stories of Beasts,'
published by Longmans, Green and Company.)

He had, in later years, named a cat Mysouff II.

"If you won't think me impertinent, sir," said Madame
Lamarque, "I should so like to know what Mysouff means."

"Mysouff just means Mysouff, Madame Lamarque."

"It is a cat's name, then?"

"Certainly, since Mysouff the First was so-called. It is
true, Madame Lamarque, you never knew Mysouff." And I became
so thoughtful that Madame Lamarque was kind enough to
withdraw quietly, without asking any questions about Mysouff
the First.

That name had taken me back to fifteen years ago, when my
mother was still living. I had then the great happiness of
having a mother to scold me sometimes. At the time I speak
of, I held a situation in the service of the Duc d'Orleans,
with a salary of 1500 francs. My work occupied me from ten in
the morning until five in the afternoon. We had a cat in
those days, whose name was Mysouff. This cat had missed his
vocation; he ought to have been a dog. Every morning I
started for my office at half-past nine, and came back every
evening at half-past five. Every morning Mysouff followed me
to the corner of a particular street, and every evening I
found him in the same street, at the same corner, waiting for
me. Now the curious thing was that on the days when I had
found some amusement elsewhere, and was not coming home to
dinner, it was of no use to open the door for Mysouff to go
and meet me. Mysouff, in the attitude of the serpent with its
tail in its mouth, refused to stir from his cushion. On the
other hand, on the days I did come, Mysouff would scratch at
the door until some one opened it for him. My mother was very
fond of Mysouff; she used to call him her barometer.

"Mysouff marks my good and my bad weather," my dear mother
would say: "the days you come in are my days of sunshine; my
rainy days are when you stay away."

When I came home I used to see Mysouff at t