“I shall return to it. As speaking in general terms pains you, I will talk of my own experiences in the field. One day, when carried away by the ardour of the hunt. It is altogether different from fishing, of which we were just talking.” I rose to go, but he quietly made me resume my seat. “Do not be impatient. I only spoke of fishing as a comparison, for you to note the difference. Fishing with bait requires the most perfect rest, while the hunt, on the contrary, demands activity.” “You have fairly caught me and pinned me down,” I replied, laughing. “That is a cruel remark; but I shall now be careful to stick to my narrative. You are as capricious as the gay butterfly I was engaged in pursuing. He was a marvellous _Apollon_ in the mountains of Franche Compté. I stopped quite out of breath in a little glade into which he had led me, thinking he would profit by this moment to escape; but, either from sheer insolence or frolic, he alighted on a long stem of grass, which bent under his weight, seeming to set me at defiance. Collecting all my energy, I determined to surprise him. I approached with stealthy steps, my eyes riveted on him, my legs strained in an attitude as uncomfortable as it was undignified, my heart swelling with an emotion more easily imagined than described. At this moment a horrid cock crowed lustily, and away flew my coveted prize. Inconsolable, I down upon a stone and expended my remaining breath in heaping invective on the head of my musical enemy, menacing him with every kind of death, and I {131} own, to my horror, even mentioning a poisoned pill. I was delighting in guilty preparations to carry my threats into effect, when a paw was placed on my arm, and I beheld two soft eyes looking into mine, those of a young fox, sir, of charming form. All his externals were in his favour, betokening a loyal noble character. Although you yourself are against his species, I somehow contracted a liking for the fox before me. This modest animal heard my menaces against the cock. “ ‘Do not give way to passion, sir,’ he said in such a sad tone that I was moved even to tears. ‘She would die of grief.’ “I did not quite understand. ‘Who do you mean?’ I inquired. “ ‘Cocotte!’ he replied with sweet simplicity. “I felt still in the dark; yet conjectured it was some love story. I have always been passionately fond of romance, and you?” “That depends entirely on circumstances.” “Say at once you detest love tales. However, you must resign yourself to hearing this one.” “I should name my objections at once, were I not afraid of wounding your feelings, so I prefer bravely taking my part and listening to your story; ennui does not kill.” “So it is said, yet I have known people who have almost succumbed to ennui. But to return to the fox. “ ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you interest me deeply. You seem unhappy. Can I serve you in any way?’ “ ‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘my grief must remain unalleviated. No one has the power to make her return my love.’