CHAPTER VII

Future landmarks--Compliments to the Duc de Bordeaux--_Vates_ --Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste brochure--The lakeof Enghien--Colonel Bro's parrot--Doctor Ferrus--Morrisel--A tip-top funeral cortège --Hunting in full cry--An autopsy--Explanation of the death of the parrot

It is most instructive to every philosophic mind to review a past period of time, and to recall that once it was looked forward to as a future. It can then be seen how gradually changes came about; landmarks are recognised, and it is realised that there is nothing sudden or inexplicable in the evolution of things; that which in the present we look upon as all-powerful chance, when investigated in the light of the past, is seen to be Providence. Thus, Charles X., the last representative of a dying aristocracy, was destined to fall; thus Louis-Philippe, the representative of the people at its strongest moment, was destined to ascend the throne; and, from 1827 and 1828, everything was being prepared so that people were ready for the great catastrophe of 1830. And yet no one can clearly read the signs of an immediate future.

All the country's hopes seemed centred in the "phenomenal child" (_l'enfant du miracle_), as they called the Duc de Bordeaux, and, on I January, M. de Barbé-Marbois, first president of the _cours des Comptes_, addressed to him the following delightful little speech, entirely suited to the young prince's years and intelligence:--

"Monseigneur, you will to-day receive the customary gifts: mine shall be a short story. Once upon a time, the prince whose name you bear, who was then as young as you are, returned to the Court of Navarre after being away. While he was still seated on his horse, he was surrounded by children of the countryside, who, delighted to see him back again, kept repeating, '_Caye nostre Henry!_' which means 'Here is our Henri!' just as though the young prince belonged to them. Queen Jeanne, his mother--an excellent princess--who had seen and heard everything from the palace balcony, well pleased by the welcome they gave the young prince, said to him, 'Those children, my son, have just given you a lesson, the sweetest you can ever receive; by calling you "_our Henry_," they are teaching you that princes belong to their country just as much as to their own family.' The prince remembered the lesson, and that is why for more than two centuries the French have continued to call him 'our Henry' and will always so speak of him."

M. le Duc de Bordeaux listened attentively, then replied--

"_I will not forget._"

Already the previous year it had been said to him, "And you, monseigneur, who are yet very young and upon whose head rests the future happiness of France, always remember that this fine kingdom also needs a good king--a king who loves truth and wishes it to be spoken to him; a king who despises flattery and who will banish from his presence those who deceive him. You will remember, monseigneur, that this advice has been given you by an aged white-haired man?"

M. le Duc de Bordeaux had replied--

"_Yes._"

"Your _Yes_, monseigneur," added the first president, "shall be registered in our annals, where you will find it when you reach your majority,"

Alas; all these counsels were to be wasted. The white-haired veteran who had learnt so much by reflection on the past, could not foresee the future. God only endows poets with the gift of clairvoyance. It was a poet, monseigneur, who addressed these words to you--

"Salut, petit cousin germain! D'un lieu d'exil, j'ose t'écrire. La fortune te tend la main; Ta naissance la fait sourire.

Mon premier jour aussi fut beau, Point de Français qui n'en convienne: Les rois m'adoraient au berceau ... Et, cependant, je suis à Vienne!"

It was a poet, sire, who addressed these words to you:--

"O rois, veillez, veillez! tâchez d'avoir régné. Ne nous reprenez pas ce qu'on avait gagné; Ne faites point, des coups d'une bride rebelle, Cabrer la liberté, qui vous porte avec elle; Soyez de votre temps, écoutez ce qu'on dit, Et tâchez d'être grands, car le peuple grandit! Écoutez, écoutez! à l'horizon immense, Ce bruit qui parfois tombe et soudain recommence, Ce murmure confus, ce sourd frémissement Qui roule et qui s'accroît de moment en moment! C'est le peuple qui vient! c'est la haute marée Qui monte, incessamment par son astre attirée! Chaque siècle, à son tour, qu'il soit d'or ou de fer, Dévoré comme un cap sur qui monte la mer, Avec ses lois, ses mœurs, les monuments qu'il fonde, Vains obstacles qui font à peine écumer l'onde, Avec tout ce qu'on vit et qu'on ne verra plus, Disparaît sous ce flot qui n'a pas de reflux! Le sol toujours s'en va, le flot toujours s'élève; Malheur à qui, le soir, s'attarde sur la grève, Et ne demande pas au pêcheur qui s'enfuit D'où vient qu'à l'horizon l'on entend ce grand bruit! Rois, hâtez-vous! rentrez dans le siècle où nous sommes; Quittez l'ancien rivage!--A cette mer des hommes Faites place, ou voyez si vous voulez périr Sur le siècle passé, que son flot doit couvrir!"

Again it was a poet who uttered these words:--

"Mais bientôt, aux regards de ce nouveau ministre, La nuit vint révéler au avenir sinistre; Des signes éclatants, au fond des cieux écrits, De ces partis vainqueurs glacèrent les esprits; Et la France espéra!--L'immortelle déesse Qui prête son épée aux martyrs de la Grèce, Sur le fronton aigu du sénat plébéien, Parut, en agitant son bonnet phrygien! Panthéon, la croix d'or s'éclipsa de ton dôme! Sous les marbres sacrés de la place Vendôme, La terre tressaillit, et l'oiseau souverain S'agita radieux sur sa base d'airain!..

It was a poet, too, who uttered the following threat:--

"Il est amer et triste, à l'heure où le cœur prie, Et dans l'effusion des plus secrets moments, D'entendre à ses côtés les pleurs de la patrie, Des clameurs de colère et des gémissements.

Il est dur que toujours un destin nous entraîne Aux civiques combats qu'on croyait achevés; De voir aux passions s'ouvrir encore l'arène, Et s'enfuir la concorde et le bonheur rêvés.

Rien qu'à ce seul penser, tout ce qu'en moi j'apaise! Est prêt à s'irriter; la haine me reprend; Et, pour qui vent guérir toute haine est mauvaise, Et, pourtant, je ne puis rester indifférent.

Oh! meurent les soupçons! oh! Dieu nous garde encore De ces duels armés entre un peuple et son roi! Sous le soleil d'août, dont la chaleur dévore, Le sang bouillonne vite, et nul n'est sûr de soi."

True, as we have stated, the action of the Government really helped the public cause. Trial after trial was brought against the press unceasingly, but liberty always comes out triumphant from these encounters, no matter what happens, and, by succeeding, kills those who try to suppress it. Monarchies are not overturned, they undermine themselves and begin to totter; then, some day, the people seeing them shake, shout with a loud voice and down they fall.

The case of the _Spectateur religieux_ was taken from court to court, and finally brought before the Court of Orléans. M. de Senancourt, who had been sentenced by the _police correctionelle_ to nine months' imprisonment and five hundred francs fine for his résumé of _Traditions morales et religieuses_, was acquitted on appeal.

Finally, Cauchois-Lemaire was condemned to fifteen months' imprisonment and to a fine of two thousand francs, for having urged a change of government and a change in the order of succession to the throne in his _Lettre à Son Altesse royale M. le Duc d'Orléans, sur la crise actuelle._ This letter contained the following incriminating passages. The author laid bare before the prince the situation of France and added:--

"But you will perhaps say to me, 'What can I do? As a peer of the realm, France knows that I submit to an ostracism which forbids me to take any part in public affairs.' That, monseigneur, is just the point at issue. Because you are suspended from your privileges, are you therefore suspended from common law? Is the country circumscribed in the Higher Chamber? Does parliamentary inertia condemn everybody to political lethargy? And, because people do not happen to belong to the aristocracy, are they therefore of no account? 'Dangerous questions,' some will exclaim. 'Unsuitable and at any rate irrelevant,' others will say. Such questions, I would reply, are both natural and useful under a constitutional form of government."

After that paragraph came the following:--

"Instead of going to Gand, he went to England, thus saving himself from association with the system that marked the epoch of 1815 and from following in the wake of 1815."

Then, passing on from politics to advice, he added:--

"And in order not to depart from his custom of offering advice, the writer of this letter urges you to exchange your ducal arms for the civic crown. Come, prince, pick up courage; there still remains in our monarchy a fine opening at your disposal, a position such as la Fayette might occupy in a Republic, that of the first citizen of France. Your princedom is but a paltry sinecure beside that moral kingdom!"

Then, on the following page:--

"The French people is like a big baby in need of teaching. Let us pray it fall not into wicked hands."

Again:--

"An eager patriotism cannot hold out against a great and noble example, an eminent position and immense wealth--three qualifications all united in your Highness's person. With these you have but to stoop to pick up the jewel lying at your feet, which many are striving for, but cannot obtain for want of the qualifications you have been endowed with by the grace of God."

Then:--

"Furthermore, a prince who saw the State in peril would not be content to fold his arms lest the chariot, lacking direction, should overturn. We, on our part, have done all in our power; it is for you to try, and to seize hold of the wheel ere it go over the precipice."

And finally:--

"Whilst we are declining," said the writer of that letter, "the Duc de Bordeaux, the Duc de Chartres and even the Duc de Reichstadt are growing up...."

Of the three princes specified by Cauchois-Lemaire as growing up at that period, only one survives.

The Duc de Reichstadt disappeared in 1832, as a shadow vanishes with the body that has thrown it. The Duc de Chartres was violently withdrawn from society in 1842, because, by his popularity, he was a substantial obstacle in the way of plans that were developing towards their accomplishment in 1848. Finally, the Duc de Bordeaux, whom Béranger had greeted in the name of his small cousin-german, the Duc de Reichstadt, was to join that duke in his exile two years before his death. What a melancholy yet eloquent spectacle for the populace was that of all those children, born with crowns on their heads or within their grasp, who were to cling weeping to the door-posts when the storm of revolution came to tear them away, one after the other, from the royal hostel which passes by the name of the palace of the Tuileries!

I gradually became acquainted with all the men of the Opposition party, who were beginning the work of undermining the monarchy at the commencement of the nineteenth century--the uncompleted task of the end of the eighteenth century. I met Carrel at M. de Leuven's house, where he often came, as he wrote for the _Courrier_, of which paper M. de Leuven was one of the chief editors. I met Manuel, Benjamin Constant and Béranger at Colonel Bro's; but Béranger was the only one of the three with whom I had time to become intimately acquainted or who had himself leisure to gauge me: the other two were to die, one before I became known, and the other when I was but little known. Bro was much attached to me. I have previously recorded how, thanks to him, I had seen Géricault upon his dying bed. He had one son, at that time a charming boy named Olivier, who became one of our bravest officers in the new army, as his father had been one of the bravest in the old _grande armée._ It was his life that was so miraculously saved by General Lamoricière when a Bedouin's yataghan was already at his throat. I have not seen him since 1829, and I am going to relate a story that will bring back recollections of childhood to him wherever he may be.

Colonel Bro used to procure Adolphe and me all the enjoyments he possibly could, and among them the sport of shooting. By some means or other, I know not how, he owned, at that time, the Lake of Enghien. In 1827 and '28 the Lake of Enghien was not a pretty little smooth, trim, well-kept lake as it is now; it had then no public gardens on its banks filled with roses, dahlias and jessamine; no Gothic châteaux, Italian villas and Swiss châlets all round it; nor, indeed, upon its surface had it a flotilla of swans, as now, begging for cakes from the people who hired boats at three francs fifty centimes the hour, furrowing the surface of its waters, which were as clear as the water in a basin, and as smooth as the glass of a mirror. No, the Lake of Enghien was, at that period, a simple, natural lake, too muddy to be called a lake, and not muddy enough to be called a pond. It was covered with reeds and water-lilies, amongst which diver birds played, water-hens cackled and wild ducks dabbled, in quite sufficient quantities to give sport to a score of guns.

So Colonel Bro had arranged for a day's shooting at Adolphe's and my entreaty and had fixed a Sunday, as on that day Adolphe and I were free from our desks and could take part. The rendezvous was to be at Colonel Bro's house at seven o'clock. We left the rue des Martyrs in three carriages and were at Enghien by nine. Here a breakfast, worthy of a Saxon thane, awaited the guests. At ten o'clock we began our sport; by five we again found a good meal served, and by eleven at night we were all back in our various homes. I was always ready before other people if it were a question of shooting, so I turned up at Colonel Bro's house by half-past six in the morning. I was shown into a little boudoir, where I found myself tête-à-tête with an immense blue-and-red Carolina parroquet. The parroquet was on its stand and I sat down on a sofa. Now I have always felt the greatest respect for men with large noses and animals with big beaks; not because I think them pretty, but because I believe Nature has her reasons when she produces a monstrosity. And on these grounds, Colonel Bro's parrot was fully entitled to my most profound respect. So I addressed a few polite words to it, as I sat down, as I have said, on a couch opposite its perch. The parroquet looked me over for a minute with that melancholy expression peculiar to parroquets; then, with that precaution which never deserts them, it slowly climbed down each branch of its perch, by the help of its claws and beak; then, finally, down the main pole of the perch itself, until it reached the ground. Then it came across to me, waddling, stopping, looking round it on all sides, and uttering a cry at every step it took, until it had reached the toe of my boot, when it began to try to climb my leg. Touched by this mark of confidence on the bird's part, I stretched out my hand to spare it the trouble of the climb; but, whether it was under a misapprehension as to the friendliness of my intentions, or whether it disguised a premeditated attack behind a benevolent exterior, it had scarcely caught sight of my hand within reach when it seized my fore-finger and gave me a double bite above the first joint right through to the bone. The pain was all the more violent because it was unexpected. I uttered a shriek, and, by a convulsive movement, my leg stiffened with the elasticity of a steel spring, and I kicked the parrot spinning with the end of my hunting-boot, in the centre of its breast, sending it flat against the wall. It fell to the floor, and lay there without a movement. Was its death caused by the kick or by the blow that followed? Was it caused by my boot or by contact with the wall? I never found out, and I made no attempt to ascertain, for I heard footsteps in the next room. I seized hold of the bird, which was still motionless, I raised the cover of the couch, I pushed it with my foot underneath into the dark depths, I let fall the cover again and I sat down as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Next, I bound up my finger I with my handkerchief, and then Colonel Bro entered. We exchanged greetings and, as I kept my hand in my pocket, nothing was noticed.

Everyone came, and we set out without a single cry or movement, or sign of existence from the parroquet buried under the couch.

When we reached Enghien, one of our party seemed to have his hand bandaged up like mine, and fellow-feeling opened up a current of sympathy between us. I asked him how he had met with his accident. A door had been violently shut by the wind just as he had his hand between it and the doorpost, and his fingers had been caught. As for myself, I simply told him I had cut myself with the flint of my gun; for in those days I still used a flint-gun for shooting. This sportsman who was maimed in the same hand as I was turned out to be the celebrated Doctor Ferrus. Directly he heard my name he asked me if I was the son of General Alexandre Dumas, and, on my replying in the affirmative, he related the story of the lifting of the four muskets with four fingers, that I gave on his authority in the early portion of these Memoirs.

We had with us, too, among the shooters, a friend of Telleville Arnault--a man who was certainly one of the bravest, wittiest and most original people who ever breathed--Colonel Morrisel. He wore spectacles and looked anything but a colonel. He had just fought an unsuccessful duel which made more sensation than if it had come off successfully.

In those days, there was a café called the café _Français_ in the rue Lafitte, which was the rallying-place of fashionable young men. The head waiter was a great billiard player named Changeur, and one night he was playing with a very young man, who found it necessary to take lessons at three francs the game, when M. le Baron de B---, accompanied by one of his friends, entered the establishment. M. le Baron de B was somewhat of a tricky character, and notorious, besides, because of two or three lucky or unlucky duels (according to the degree of philanthropy with which the reader may be endowed, and whether he think it fortunate or unfortunate to wound or kill his neighbour); he came up to the billiard-table and, without even addressing the young man, he said--

"Changeur, get us some coffee, and let us have the billiard-table."

"Excuse me, Monsieur le Baron," said Changeur, in amazement, pointing to the young man, "but I am engaged in a game."

"Well, then, you will stop the game, that's all."

"Monsieur," said the young man timidly and politely, "we have only a few points more to make; in ten minutes the billiard-table will be at your service."

"I am not asking for it in ten minutes, but at once.... Come, Changeur, come, my lad, give me your cue."

Morrisel, who was already old, grey, thin, feeble, mean-looking and poverty-stricken in appearance, was taking a cup of coffee in a corner.

"Changeur," he said, without rising, and in dulcet tones, that contrasted oddly with the words he uttered,--"Changeur, my lad, I forbid you to give up the billiard-table."

"But, monsieur," replied Changeur, in great embarrassment, "if indeed M. le Baron de B--- wishes me to give him my cue...."

"If you give your cue to M. le Baron, Changeur, I shall take it out of the hands of M. le Baron and break it across your head!"

M. le Baron de B--- saw clearly enough that Changeur was merely being used as a spark to kindle the flame. The thrust had, in fact, been aimed at him and he returned the stroke in the direction whence it came.

"It seems to me, monsieur," he said, "you are very anxious to pick a quarrel with me."

"I am charmed, monsieur, that you see things so plainly!"

"And what is your excuse for picking a quarrel with me?"

"Why, because you have abused your position with respect to that young fellow, and all misuse of power, no matter what it is, appears to me odious."

"Do you know who I am, monsieur?" said the Baron de B---, striding towards Morrisel with a threatening air.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter, calmly lifting his spectacles; "you are M. le Baron de B---. You killed M.--- in one duel and wounded M.--- in another. I know that much about you."

"And yet you insist I shall not have the billiard-table given up to me?"

"I insist more pertinaciously than ever!"

"Very well, monsieur; but you understand that I look upon your remarks as an insult."

"I offer no objection, monsieur."

"Therefore, we shall meet to-morrow morning at six o'clock, if you please, in the bois de Vincennes, or in the bois de Boulogne."

"Monsieur, I am twenty-five years your senior, and I need more sleep; besides, I am a player, and I generally play all night long, therefore I do not go to bed before five and I rarely rise before noon. Then, when I get up, I have my toilet to make--a habit I have maintained too long to break through now. When my toilet is finished, my servant gets ready my _déjeuner._ After I have had lunch, I come here for my coffee, as you perceive; I am extremely methodical. Now, all this takes me till two o'clock. Therefore, to-morrow, if that will be convenient to you, I shall be at your disposal by half-past two, but not until half-past two."

"At half-past two so be it, monsieur; here is my card."

Morrisel examined it with attention, bowed in acknowledgment, put it in his pocket, drew forth two cards bearing his address, presented one to M. le Baron de B--- and wrapped the other in a five-hundred franc note. Then he called to Changeur, M. le Baron de B--- watching what he was doing.

"Changeur," he said, "here is a five-hundred franc note."

"Does Monsieur wish to settle his account?" asked Changeur.

"No, no, my lad."

"What am I to do, then, with this five-hundred franc note?"

"First of all take Monsieur's measurements."

Changeur looked at the Baron de B---, frightened out of his wits.

"Do you hear?" said Morrisel, "and when you have taken his measure you can go with it to the undertaker's."

"To the undertaker ...?"

"Yes, Changeur; and there you can order in my name--in the name of Colonel Morrisel, you quite understand?--a first-rate funeral equipage for M. le Baron de B---. You understand, it is to be of the very best!--I know it will come to more; but the five hundred francs will do on account;--you understand, Changeur? it is to be a thoroughly good funeral."

M. le Baron de B--- tried to take it as a joke.

"Monsieur," he said, "I should have thought you could have left my family to make these arrangements."

"Not so, M. le Baron; your family is ruined--so people say--and the thing would be shabbily done. Think of carrying M. le Baron de B--- to the cemetery in a second-rate hearse, or with a third-rate pall! Fie! I have killed twenty-two men in duels during my life, M. le Baron, and I have always borne the cost of their burials. Rely upon me, you shall be handsomely buried. When strangers see your cortège pass by, I mean them to ask, 'Dear me! whose is that magnificent funeral?' Then, as it passes along the boulevard, Changeur will reply, 'It is that of M. le Baron de B---, the famous duellist, you know. He rudely forced a quarrel on a young fellow who could not defend himself; Colonel Morrisel happened to be present, took up cudgels for the young man and, upon my word, if he didn't kill the Baron de B--- at the first thrust! It will be an excellent example for all impertinent people and duellists ...' Au revoir, M. le Baron de B---, that is to say, until to-morrow. You know my address, send me the names of your seconds; yours is the choice of arms."

Then, turning towards the waiter: "And now, Changeur, my lad, you understand, a first-class turn out--the very best that can be had! Nothing shall be too good for M. le Baron de B---!"

And he readjusted his spectacles, took up his umbrella and went out.

The quarrel had made a great commotion, and next day, from noon onwards, the café _Français_ was crowded with inquisitive people, anxious to know what had passed and, still more, what was going to happen. At one o'clock Morrisel arrived as usual, his spectacles on his nose, his umbrella in his hand. Everybody made way for him. Morrisel bowed with his accustomed politeness, went to his usual place and called for Changeur, who ran to him and hastened to serve him.

"My coffee, Changeur," said Morrisel; and he phlegmatically melted his sugar into the last atom, and then M. le Baron de B--- entered the café.

He advanced towards Morrisel, who raised his glasses, and returned his adversary's salute with a smile on his lips.

"Monsieur le Comte," said the baron, "when I insulted you yesterday, I was not sober; to-day, I offer you my apologies, will you please accept them? I have made reparation, and I can therefore address you thus without damage to my honour."

"That is your own concern, M. le Baron," returned Morrisel.

Then he turned to Changeur: "Changeur, go and tell the undertaker that M. le Baron's funeral is indefinitely postponed."

"It is unnecessary," said Changeur; "I took the liberty of waiting. Here is your note, Colonel."

"Then go and ask your master for my bill, my lad."

Changeur went to the desk and returned with an elaborately made out bill.

"Ah!" said Morrisel, lowering his glasses, "nine hundred francs. Stop, Changeur, here is another five-hundred franc note; the change is for the waiter."

Then, having finished his coffee with his accustomed nonchalance, he lowered his spectacles, took up his umbrella and departed amidst the applause of the customers and onlookers. If I remember rightly, Godefroy Cavaignac wrote a charming story on this anecdote.

Morrisel was also a card-player and would play as high as anybody wished. One night at a party at either Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely's or at Madame Davilliers', I forget which, we heard a little discussion being carried on at a card-table on which there were not quite twenty-five louis. We went closer and asked what it was about. Morrisel held the cards; he had passed seven times, and he had won six hundred thousand francs (I purposely express the figures in letters) from M. Hainguerlot. M. Hainguerlot took the cards and wagered to win back the 600,000 francs in a single game. Morrisel was willing to wager 500,000 francs _en partie liée_, running the risk of retaining only 100,000 francs of the celebrated banker's, for he looked upon himself (and rightly so, too) as a very good player, for when, finally, he rose from the table on making _Charlemagne_, he had made for himself the sum of 30,000 livres income by this throw, which was not a bad sum for a retired colonel. When the question was argued out, each had made a concession. M. Hainguerlot agreed to a stake of 500,000 francs, and Morrisel renounced his _partie liée_. Two witnesses were appointed for each side, as in the case of a duel. Morrisel lost. He got up with the same coolness as though it was only a question of a half-napoleon. True, he had still won 100,000 francs.

In summer, Morrisel sometimes lived at Madame Hamelin's country house at Val, near Saint-Len-Taverny. One day, at the beginning of the shooting season, he ventured out on the lands of the commune of Frépillon, where, encountering the gamekeeper, he was vigorously threatened with legal proceedings in case of a second offence. Morrisel was invited to dinner on the following Sunday at the château of Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, situated on the other side of the forbidden territory. When Sunday arrived, so that it should not be said he had skulked across the forbidden land unperceived, Morrisel took with him the beadle, a wind instrument and four chanters, formed a square of six with himself in the centre, and crossed the Frépillon territory, shooting to the accompaniment of Gregorian chants. By the time he reached Madame Régnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, he was followed by the whole village, whose curiosity was greatly excited by this unprecedented method of going a hunting.

Poor Morrisel died from the effects of a painful disease. In spite of surgical assistance, in spite of nitrate of silver, in spite of Civiale, Pasquier and Dupuytren, it came about that, being a plentiful drinker, he could not get rid of a single drop of the liquor he had drunk when it was absorbed into his system. They prolonged his life by using means to make him perspire. Finally, one day, as he did not thoroughly understand what the doctors told him about his disease, he asked if, before he himself died, they could not procure him from any hospital the body of a person who had died of the disease of which he himself was to die. The doctors told him it was possible, and set to work to find one. Three or four days later, they told him they had found one. Morrisel bought it at the usual price--six francs, I believe--had the body brought close to his bedside, placed it on a table and begged one of the doctors to make a post-mortem examination. When the autopsy was finished, Morrisel had the satisfaction of knowing the exact nature of the malady from which he was suffering, and from henceforth was content to die quietly--an act, it should be recorded, which he accomplished with wonderful courage.

But to return to the parrot of the rue des Martyrs. A fortnight later, on returning to Colonel Bro's for another shooting trip like the former, I was astounded to find it on its perch again. But after a few minutes' gaze its stillness struck me as unusual. I went up to it: it was stuffed!

"Oh!" I said to the colonel, "your poor Jacquot is dead, is it?"

"Ah yes, it is," replied the colonel. "They told me a curious incident in connection with it--a story I had never believed previously, namely, that certain animals hide themselves to die, and that is why their bodies are never recovered...."

"Well?"

"Well, just think of it! that unlucky parroquet went and hid itself to die right underneath the sofa cover; we thought it was lost at first; we searched all over for it, and finally we found it there, the day after our shooting party."

"Did it ever bite people?" I timidly asked General Bro.

"_It?_ Never!" was the colonel's reply.

I thought of showing the colonel my finger, which was still badly marked; but I reflected that it was much better to leave the colonel in ignorance as to his parroquet's defects of character and under the illusion that it had died, as indicated, a noble death. Now that many years have passed by since that event, and probably not a single feather of the unfortunate Jacquot remains, I humbly confess my crime, and ask for forgiveness from all whom it may concern.