"WANTED: THE CAT. By Horatio Bottomley."--_John Bull._ * * * * * MARDI GRAS. (_With the British Army in France._) "Have you reflected, _mon chou_," said M'sieur Bonneton, complacently regarding the green carnations on his carpet-slippers, "that to-morrow is Mardi Gras?" "I have," replied Madame shortly. "One may expect then, _ma petite,_ that there will be _crepes_ for dinner?" "With eggs at twelve francs the dozen?" said Madame decidedly. "One may not." On any other matter M'sieur would probably have taken his wife's decision as final, but he had a consuming passion for _crepes_, and was moreover a diplomat. "_La vie chere!_" he said sadly; "it cuts at the very vitals of hospitality. With what pleasure I could have presented myself to our amiable neighbours, the Sergeant-Major Coghlan and his estimable wife, and said, 'It is the custom in France for all the world to eat _crepes_ on Mardi Gras. Accept these, then, made by Madame Bonneton herself, who in the making of this national delicacy is an incomparable artist.' But when eggs are twelve francs the dozen"--he shook his head gloomily--"generous sentiments must perish." Madame perceptibly softened. "Perhaps, after all, I might persuade that miser Dobelle to sell me a few at ten francs the dozen," she murmured; and M'sieur knew that diplomacy had won another notable victory. Curiously enough, at this precise moment the tenants of the _premier etage_ of 10 _bis_, rue de la Republique, were also engaged in a gastronomic discussion. "If almanacs in France count as they do in Aldershot," said Mrs. Coghlan, "to-morrow will be Shrove Tuesday." "An' what av it?" demanded Sergeant-Major Coghlan of the British Army. "What of it? As though ye'd not been dreaming of pancakes this fortnight an' more past--fearful to mention thim an' fearful lest I should forget. Well, well, if ye'll bring a good flour ration in the marning I'll do me best." "I've been thinking, Peggy lass," said the gratified Sergeant-Major, "it wud be the polite thing to make a few for thim dacent people on the ground-flure. I'll wager they've niver seen th' taste av' a pancake in this country." Thus it was that when Hippolyte Lariviere, the cornet-player of the Palais de Cinema, ascended the stairs to his eerie on the top-floor of 10 _bis_ the following evening the appetising odour of frying batter enveloped him as a garment. He sniffed appreciatively. "_Le gros_ Bonneton can eat _crepes_ freely without considering the effect on his temperament," he said. "One sometimes regrets the demands of Art." Outside the Coghlans' door another idea struck him. "The essence of a present lies not in its value but its appropriateness. A few _crepes_ on Mardi Gras would be a novel acknowledgment to the Sergeant-Major of his liberality in the way of cigarettes. At present my case is empty."