St. Dominic’s hatred of cats is more than offset by the affection which various popes have shown them. Gregory the Great had a much-indulged favorite, and Leo XII. had a number. One big cat of grayish-red called Micetto he presented to another friend of the feline race, the famous Chateaubriand, as a mark of his esteem. Pius IX. also had his pet--a superb “_gato soriano_,” which was always present at his frugal meals, sitting beside him, and claiming its full share both of food and attention. A very pleasant sight it must have been, to see this benign old pontiff taking his _passegiata_ in the gardens of the Vatican, with Pussy sedately pacing at his side. When, after a while, the link of companionship was broken, and Pussy paced from this world to another, no pet succeeded him. “I am too old for new friendships,” said his master; “moreover, death may come to me next, for my cat and I have both grown old in the Vatican.” A still more ardent cat-lover in Italy was the aged Archbishop of Taranto, who died about the beginning of this century. His pets had their regular meals corresponding with his own; and a guest was once much amused by hearing him ask a servant during dinner whether the cats had been served. “Yes, monsignore,” the man gravely answered, “but Desdemona prefers waiting for the roasts.” Desdemona was a white Persian, both in color and disposition a complete contrast to her huge black mate, Othello. When the archbishop was eighty-six years old, a friend called upon him rather earlier than usual one morning, and was rewarded by this pretty scene: the venerable, white-haired old man in dressing gown and slippers, seated at the breakfast-table, with two great tortoise-shell cats on chairs beside him, alertly watching his hand for bits of bread, and purring in the most affectionate manner between mouthfuls. Cardinal Richelieu was devoted to kittens, rather than cats, finding in their companionship the relaxation he needed after toil. They lived in his room, in handsomely lined and cushioned baskets, so that he might see them whenever he chose. But no sooner were they three months old, than he had them removed and a new supply brought in. One white Angora passed the fatal period and retained her place as favorite-in-chief so long as she lived. Her usual lounging-place was His Eminence’s table, among his books and papers. In the picture painted by Champaigne, there are three different views of the famous cardinal, and one can easily fancy the delicate, sarcastic countenance bent towards his pets, and occasionally relaxing into a smile at some extra kittenish gambol. [Illustration: CARDINAL RICHELIEU, FRONT FACE AND SIDES. (_From the painting by Philippe de Champaigne._)]