“We do nothing, and what is more, we are paid for doing nothing! I am the great poet Cacatogan—quite an exceptional member of my family. I have made long journeys, crossed arid plains, and made no end of cruel peregrinations. It seems but yesterday since I courted the Muses, and my attachment has been most unfortunate. I sang under Louis XVI., I clamoured for the Republic, I chanted under the Empire, discreetly praised the Reformation, and even made an effort in these degenerate days to meet the exigencies of this heartless century. I have tossed over the world clever distiches, sublime hymns, graceful dithyrambics, pious elegies, furious dramas, doubtful romances, and bloody tragedies. In a word, I flatter myself I have added some glorious festoons, gilded pinnacles, and choice arabesques to the temple of the Muses. Age has not bereft me of poetic fire. I was just composing a song when we came into collision, and you knocked the train of my ideas off the line. For all that, if I can be of any service to you I am heartily at your disposal.” {249} “You, sir, can serve me,” I replied, “for at this moment I too feel something of the poetic fire of which you speak, although, unlike yourself, laying no claims to poetic fame. I am naturally endowed with a voice and song which together violate all the old rules of art.” [Illustration] “I myself have forgotten the rules. Genius may not be fettered, her flights are far beyond all that is stiff and formal in schools of art.” “But, sir, my voice has a most unaccountable effect on those who {250} listen to its melody, an effect similar to that of a certain Jean de Nivelle whom—— You know the rest.” “Yes, yes,” said Cacatogan. “I myself suffer from a similar cause, thoroughly inexplicable, although the effect is incontestable.” “Sir, you are the Nestor of poetry. Can you suggest a remedy for this peculiarity of song?” “No; during my youth I was much annoyed by it. Believe me, its effect indicates only the public inability to appreciate true inspiration.” “That may be so. Permit me to give you an example of my style, after which you will be better able to advise me.” “Willingly,” replied Cacatogan; “I am all ears.” I tuned my pipe at once and had the satisfaction of seeing that he neither flew off nor fell asleep, but riveted his gaze on me, and from time to time displayed tokens of approbation. Soon, however, I perceived he was not listening; his flattering murmurs were lavished on himself. Taking advantage of a pause in my song he instantly struck in, “It is the six-thousandth production of my brain, and who dare say I am old? My lines are as harmonious and my imagination as vivid as ever. I shall exhibit this last child of my genius to my good friends;” thus saying he flew off without another word. V.