she returns a selfish indifference. He describes exquisitely and precisely the "gentle hypocrite," with her irreproachable modesty of demeanour, her soft sleek fur, her noiseless step, her air of mingled graciousness and dignity, her sleepy eyes half shut, lest their gleam should betray the tigerish soul within. This is the cat of La Fontaine, an unworthy picture, drawn with consummate skill. France accepted her without shadow of protest, granting to her courage, her cunning, and her loveliness, pardon for many sins. After all, these amiable critics may have urged, we forgive Achilles much, because he is brave; Odysseus more, because he is acute; Helen most of all, because she is beautiful. Why then pass priggish judgment upon a creature brave as Achilles, acute as Odysseus, beautiful as Helen? She has the qualities of her defects; and these things are as the wise gods ordain. We cannot mould her to our liking; Montaigne has told us so. She will not strive for our approval, any more than she will toil for our convenience. "Libertas sine Labore." She walks her chosen path by our side; but our ways are not her ways, our influence does not remotely reach her. Let us abandon the office of critic, where there is no mutual standard for criticism.
And so it was that Mme. la Duchesse de Bouillon—true lover of cats and their most tender friend-
