When the archbishop was eighty-six years old, a friend called upon him rather earlier than usual one morning, and was rewarded by this pretty scene: the venerable, white-haired old man in dressing gown and slippers, seated at the breakfast-table, with two great tortoise-shell cats on chairs beside him, alertly watching his hand for bits of bread, and purring in the most affectionate manner between mouthfuls.
Cardinal Richelieu was devoted to kittens, rather than cats, finding in their companionship the relaxation he needed after toil. They lived in his room, in handsomely lined and cushioned baskets, so that he might see them whenever he chose. But no sooner were they three months old, than he had them removed and a new supply brought in. One white Angora passed the fatal period and retained her place as favorite-in-chief so long as she lived. Her usual lounging-place was His Eminence’s table, among his books and papers. In the picture painted by Champaigne, there are three different views of the famous cardinal, and one can easily fancy the delicate, sarcastic countenance bent towards his pets, and occasionally relaxing into a smile at some extra kittenish gambol.
CARDINAL RICHELIEU, FRONT FACE AND SIDES.
(From the painting by Philippe de Champaigne. )
Our English Cardinal Wolsey also had a fondness for cats, and more than once was found by some great dignitary amusing himself with a kitten. One favorite was sometimes seen with him in the Council Chamber; and it may well have entered into the final sum of his offenses that he preferred the society of intelligent cats to that of empty-headed bigwigs!
In the last century there was a Mlle. Dupuy living in France, of whom few people now know anything; but who, nevertheless, in her own day had a reputation as an exquisite performer on the harp. Furthermore, she possessed a cat who had also some claim to be called an authority in harpistry. Before a performance in public, Mlle. Dupuy would rehearse privately before him. He always listened with critical attention, and if any notes displeased, would growl. Such notes she always amended, trying them over until he ceased growling. The lady never married, and when in course of time she died, her will was found to provide, among other bequests, for the maintenance of this little friend and critic. Sad to relate, however, the will was set aside by grasping relatives, and Pussy’s fate is unknown.
Fourier had a magnificent cat—a great pet—in his house at Lyons; and it is recorded of this rather grim philosopher, that he could never see a pretty cat or kitten on the street without stopping to caress it.
Lord Eldon, the jurist, had a room full of cats, and once when, owing to some bone of contention, they grew extremely noisy, went into the room and solemnly read the Riot Act—with what effect we are not told.