Hippolyte was an excellent swimmer, a clever runner, and quite a good horseman, but, as I have before implied, his intellectual faculties were far from corresponding to his physical abilities. Two instances will give an idea of the state of his intelligence. One evening, my mother fearing a frost in the night, and wishing to shelter some beautiful autumn flowers which were under a little wall breast high, and which brightened our outlook from the dining-room windows, called Hippolyte. Hippolyte ran up, and stood listening to her orders with his big eyes and thick lips wide open. "Hippolyte," said my mother, "you must carry those pots into the house this evening and put them in the kitchen." "Yes, madame," replied Hippolyte. In the evening my mother indeed found the pots in the kitchen, but piled up one on top of the other, so as to take up as little room as possible in the domains of Marie the kitchenmaid. A cold perspiration broke out on my poor mother's face, for too well did she understand what had happened. Hippolyte had obeyed her to the letter. He had emptied out the flowers and taken the pots inside. Next morning my mother found the flowers broken, heaped on top of one another, glistening with frost, at the foot of the wall. Pierre, the plant-doctor, was called in, and managed to save a few, but most of them were destroyed. The second thing was more serious in its nature. I have offered it to Alcide Tousez to incorporate in his _Soeur de Jocrisse_; but he dared not use it. I possessed a delightful little sparrow Pierre had caught for me. The poor little bird could scarcely fly, and had tried to go on a voyage of discovery after its father, like Icarus. It had passed from its nest into a cage, where it had grown and developed its wings properly. Hippolyte had the special charge of feeding my sparrow and cleaning out its cage. One day I found the cage open, and my sparrow had gone. Much weeping, lamentation, and woe followed, and finally maternal intervention. "Who left the door open?" she asked Hippolyte. "I did, madame," he replied, with as much glee as though he had done the cleverest thing imaginable. "What did you do that for?" "Oouf! the poor little beast's cage smelt as though it needed fresh air." There was nothing to say in reply. Did not my mother herself open the doors and windows of rooms which needed fresh air, and order the servants always to do the same under similar circumstances? They gave me another sparrow, and instructed Hippolyte to keep its cage cleaner, and so prevent any smell. I do not remember if he obeyed properly; for another event took up the attention of our household. CHAPTER IX Mocquet's nightmare--His pipe--Mother Durand--Les bêtes _fausses_ et le _pierge_--M. Collard--My father's remedy--Radical cure of Mocquet. Mocquet had the nightmare. Do you know what a nightmare is? I think you must have seen that huge-eyed monster, seated on the chest of a panting and sleeping man.