I, who now address you, have entered a black-maned lion’s cage quite recently. Oh! do not exclaim at my heroism. A great many people have visited this captive king of the desert; first, Tartarin, then all the Marseillais, then Mademoiselle Roselia Rousseil, who on a similar occasion dedicated a poem to Bidel, entitled, La Mort du Lion, ou le Dompteur [p148] par Amour (The Lion’s Death; or, The Tamer by Love), which commenced with these lines:
C’est un vaillant dompteur, jamais il ne recule.
Son corps semble pétri par les dieux; l’on croit voir
La grâce d’Apollon dans la force d’Hercule.
Pour moi, j’aime surtout son grand œil doux si noir.[7]
I did not visit the lion in order to write verses to him. I merely wished to be introduced to him because I knew that I should have to mention him to you. It was a scruple of professional honesty on my part.
Here is a true account of the interview without any embellishment.
The lion-tamer, with whom I had a short previous conference, answered for the safety of the attempt.
“You must wait,” he said, “in the entrance to the door until I call you.”