“ ‘The lynx,’ replied the Dog, ‘is accustomed to appropriating. He plunges into American funds; he hazards the most daring actions in broad day and darts into concealment. His cunning consists in always having his mouth open, and strangely enough, doves, his chief food, are drawn into it.’ “ ‘How is that?’ “ ‘He has cleverly written some word on his tongue which attracts the doves.’ “ ‘What is the word?’ “ ‘I ought rather to say words. First, there is the word _profit_; when that has gone it is replaced by _dividend_; after dividend comes _reserve_, or _interest_. The doves are always caught.’ {184} “ ‘Why so?’ “ ‘Ah! we are in a land where men have such a low opinion of each other, that the most foolish is certain to find another more foolish still—some one simple enough to believe that a slip of printed paper is a mine of gold. Human governments cannot be held altogether blameless, as they have too frequently misled the people by their paper. The operation is called “founding public credit.” When it happens that the credit exceeds the public credulity, all is lost.’ “Sire, credit does not yet exist in Africa. We might occupy the malcontents there by getting them to found a bank. My _détaché_—I can hardly call my Dog an _attaché_—took me to a public café, and, by the way, explained many of the faults and frailties of beasts. At this famed resort there were a number of the animals we had been looking for. Thus the question is being cleared up little by little. Just imagine, my dear father, a Parisian lion is a young man who wears patent-leather boots worth about two pounds, a hat of equal value, as he has nothing better to protect in his head than in his feet; a coat of six pounds, a waistcoat of two pounds, trousers, three pounds, gloves, five shillings, tie, one pound; add to these rags about one hundred pounds for jewellery and fine linen, and you obtain a total of about one hundred and sixteen pounds, five shillings. This sum distributed as above, renders a man so proud that he at once usurps our name. With one hundred and sixteen pounds, five shillings, and, say, nine-pence for pocket money, one rises far above the common herd of animals of intellect and culture, and obtains universal admiration. If one can only lay one’s claws on that sum, one is handsome, brilliant. One may look with scorn upon the unfortunate poet, orator, man of science, whose attire is humble and cheap. You may indeed be what you like; if you do not wear the harness of the authorised maker, of the regulation cut and cost, you are certain to be neglected. A little varnish on your boots, and the other etceteras make up the roaring lion of society. Alas, Sire, I fear the same varnish and veneer conceals the hollowness of human vanity. Tear it off, and nothing remains.