'Parrot--here it is--parrots are monogamous.'

'As you know Latin, Michel, of course you know what monogamous means.'

'That means that they can sing scales--gamut, I suppose?'

'Well, no, Michel, not exactly. It means that they have only one "wife."'

'Indeed, sir? That is because they talk like us most likely. Now, I have found the place: "It was long believed that parrots were incapable of breeding in Europe, but the contrary has been proved on a pair of blue macaws which lived at Caen. M. Lamouroux furnishes the details of these results."'

'Let us hear the details which M. Lamouroux furnishes.'

'"These macaws, from March 1818 until August 1822, including a period of four years and a half, laid, in all, sixty-two eggs."'

'Michel, I never said they did not lay eggs; what I said was--'

'"Out of this number,"' continued Michel in a loud voice, '"twenty-five young macaws were hatched, of which only ten died. The others lived and continued perfectly healthy."'

'Michel, I confess to having entertained false ideas on the subject of macaws.'

'"They laid at all seasons of the year,"' continued Michel, '"and more eggs were hatched in the latter than in the former years."'

'Michel, I have no more to say.'

'"The number of eggs in the nest varied. There have been as many as six at a time."'

'Michel, I yield, rescue or no rescue!'

'Only,' said Michel, shutting the book, 'you must be careful not to give them bitter almonds or parsley.'

'Not bitter almonds,' I answered, 'because they contain prussic acid; but why not parsley?'

Michel, who had kept his thumb in the page, reopened the book.

'"Parsley and bitter almonds,"' he read, '"are a violent poison to parrots."'

'All right, Michel, I shall remember.'

I remembered so well, that some time after, hearing that M. Persil had died suddenly (persil being the French for parsley), I exclaimed, much shocked: 'Ah! poor man, how unfortunate! He must have been eating parrot!' However, the news was afterwards contradicted.

The next day I desired Michel to tell the carpenter to make a new cage for Mademoiselle Desgarcins, who would certainly die of cramp if left in her small travelling cage. But Michel, with a solemn face, said it was unnecessary. 'For,' said he, 'I am sorry to tell you, sir, that a misfortune has happened. A weasel has killed the golden pheasant. You will, however, have it for your dinner to-day.'

I did not refuse, though the prospect of this repast caused me no great pleasure. I am very fond of game, but somehow prefer pheasants which have been shot to those killed by weasels.

'Then,' said I, 'if the cage is empty, let us put in the monkey.' We brought the little cage close to the big cage, and opened both doors.

The monkey sprang into her new abode, bounded from perch to perch, and then came and looked at me through the bars, making grimaces and uttering plaintive cries.

'She is unhappy without a companion,' said Michel.

'Suppose we give her the parrot?'

'You know that little boy, an Auvergnat, who comes here with his monkey asking for pennies. If I were you, sir, I would buy that monkey.'

'And why that monkey rather than another?'

'He has been so well educated and is so gentle. He has a cap with a feather, and he takes it off when you give him a nut or a bit of sugar.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: {THE AUVERGNAT AND HIS MONKEY}]

'Can he do anything else?'

'He can fight a duel.'

'Is that all?'

'No, he can also catch fleas on his master.'

'But, Michel, do you think that that youth would part with so useful an animal?'

'We can but ask him, and there he is at this moment!' And he called to the boy to come in. The monkey was sitting on a box which the little boy carried on his back, and when his master took off his cap, the monkey did the same. It had a nice gentle little face, and I remarked to Michel that it was very like a well-known translator of my acquaintance.

'If I have the happiness to become the owner of this charming animal,'

I continued, 'we will call it Potich.' And giving Michel forty francs, I left him to make his bargain with the little Auvergnat.

III

I had not entered my study since my return from Havre, and there is always a pleasure in coming home again after an absence. I was glad to come back, and looked about me with a pleased smile, feeling sure that the furniture and ornaments of the room, if they could speak, would say they were glad to see me again. As I glanced from one familiar object to another, I saw, upon a seat by the fire, a thing like a black and white m.u.f.f, which I had never seen before. When I came closer, I saw that the m.u.f.f was a little cat, curled up, half asleep, and purring loudly. I called the cook, whose name was Madame Lamarque.

She came in after a minute or two.

'So sorry to have kept you waiting, but you see, sir, I was making a white sauce, and you, who can cook yourself, know how quickly those sauces curdle if you are not looking after them.'

'Yes, I know that, Madame Lamarque; but what I do not know is, where this new guest of mine comes from.' And I pointed to the cat.

'Ah, sir!' said Madame Lamarque in a sentimental tone, 'that is an antony.'

'An antony, Madame Lamarque! What is that?'

'In other words, an orphan--a foundling, sir.'

'Poor little beast!'

'I felt sure that would interest you, sir.'

'And where did you find it, Madame Lamarque?'

'In the cellar--I heard a little cry--miaow, miaow, miaow! and I said to myself, "That _must_ be a cat!"'

'No! did you actually say that?'

'Yes, and I went down myself, sir, and found the poor little thing behind the sticks. Then I recollected how you had once said, "We ought to have a cat in the house."'