Figaro here; Figaro, there, I tell you! Figaro upstairs, Figaro downstairs and -- oh, my goodness me, this little Figaro slip into my ladys chamber smart as you like at any time whatsoever that he takes the fancy for, dont you know, hes a cat of the world, opolitan, sophisticated; he tell when a furry friend is the Missus best pany. For what lady in all the world could say "no" to the passio toujours discret advances of a fine marmalade cat? (Unless it be her eyes intily overflow at the slightest whiff of furr, which happened once, as you shall hear.)
A tom, sirs, a giom and proud of it. Proud of his fine, white shirtfront that dazzles harmoniously against his e and tangeriessellations (oh! what a fiery suit of lights have I); proud of his bird-entrang eye and more than military whiskers; proud, to a fault, some say, of his fine, musical voice. All the windows in the square fly open when I break into impromptu song at the spectacle of the moon above Bergamo. If the poor players in the square, the sullen rout ed trash that haunts the provinces, are rewarded with a hail of pennies when they set up their makeshift stage and start their raucous choruses; then how much more liberally do the citizens deluge me with pails of the freshest water, vegetables hardly spoiled and, occasionally, slippers, shoes and boots.
Do you see these fine, high, shiniher boots of mine? A young cavalry officer made me the tribute of, first ohen, after I celebrate his generosity with a fresh obbligato, the moon no fuller than my heart -- whoops! I nimbly spring aside -- down es the other. Their high heels will click like castas when Puss takes his promenade upoiles, for my song recalls flamenco, all cats have a Spanish tihough Puss himself elegantly lubricates his virile, muscular, native Bergamasque with French, sihat is the only language in which you purr.
"Merrrrrrrrrrci!"
Instanter I draw my new boots ohe natty white stogs that terminate my hinder legs. That young man, with curiosity by moonlight the use to which I put his footwear, calls out: "Hey, Puss! Puss, there!"
"At your service, sir!"
"Up to my baly, young Puss!"
He leans out, in his nightshirt, encement as I swing suctly up the fa?ade, forepaws on a curly cherubs pate, hindpaws on a stucco wreath, bring them up to meet your forepaws while, first paw forward, hup! on to the stone nymphs tit; left paw down a bit, the satyrs bum should do the triothing to it, once you know how, rocoo problem. Acrobatics? Born to them; Puss perform a baersault whilst holding aloft a glass of vino in his right paw and never spill a drop.
But, to my shame, the famous death-defying triple somersault en plein air, that is, in middle air, that is, unsupported and without a safety , I, Puss, have never yet attempted though often I have dashingly brought off the double tour, to the applause of all.
"You strike me as a cat of parts," says this young man when Im arrived at his windowsill. I made him a handsome geion, rump out, tail up, head down, to facilitate his friendly chuder my ; and, as involuntary free gift, my natural, my habitual smile.
For all cats have this particularity, ead every one, from the mea alley so the proudest, whitest she that ever graced a pontiffs pillow -- we have our smiles, as it were, painted on. Those small, cool, quiet Mona Lisa smiles that smile we must, no matter whether its been fun or its been not. So all cats have a politis ai