Yes, what a life! As I make my way to the grands boulevards it dawns upon me that I have never seen a carrier-pigeon, and that therefore I have no idea what he looks like. Also, suppose I wonderfully succeeded in securing one, what should I say to him, what should I do with him? In fact, how does one tell a carrier-pigeon where to go? And——
Two pigeons on the steps of this church, but of the before-mentioned greedy, good-for-nothing kind. Then, more pigeons in this poulterer’s, but dormant, dead. And next, on the menu of a café, the intimation in bold, red letters: “This Day: Braised Pigeon and Green Peas.”
In this café, in their accustomed corner, I find M. Henri Durand and M. Marcel Bertrand, two amiable, chatty, middle-aged little Frenchmen with whom I am on cordial, confidential terms. Thinking they may help me, I tell them of my trouble, and extraordinary are their expressions when I have finished.
“My admirable but unfortunate friend, you are ill,” gasps M. Bertrand. “My excellent but unhappy neighbour from Across the Channel, the heat has disturbed you,” cries M. Durand. And then (after I have denied that I am suffering either from illness or from the heat) M. Bertrand solemnly holds forth:
“You ask for a carrier-pigeon to take a letter to a very adorable miss who lives in Yorkshire. But, my poor old one, French pigeons have never heard of Yorkshire,—and neither have I and neither has our friend Durand here, and neither, I am sure, has anyone in France. But I will not insist: this Yorkshire is not the point. The point is, every carrier-pigeon in France has been proclaimed a bird of the State. In Paris, there are 15,000; in the provinces, 150,000, thus 165,000 in all; and all of them have been mobilised—yes, mobilised by order of the Government. In fact, a carrier-pigeon to-day occupies the same position as a soldier or a sailor. True, he cannot fight; but upon command, he must fly. And yet you ask for one of these State birds! Unfortunate friend, you might as well ask for a regiment or a military balloon, or a war-ship.”
But still more extraordinary revelations follow. I hear, for instance, that the 15,000 carrier-pigeons in Paris are housed in the various ministries—yes, every ministry in Paris is a vast dovecot. Two thousand pigeons for the Minister of War; three thousand pigeons for the Minister of Justice, and six thousand pigeons for the Prime Minister.
“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” states M. Bertrand. “If he heard you wanted one of his State birds, he would have you arrested.”
“So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” And sympathetically M. Bertrand replies: “Alas, my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, adorable miss that birds of the State may fly only for their own country.”
Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the 15,000 State birds in Paris are being wonderfully looked after, even spoilt. Never such comfortable, pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, excellent fare! “It is to be hoped,” concludes M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed, and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious habits; for that would be disastrous.”
And here I rise. And after I have taken leave of MM. Durand and Bertrand, I go to the nearest post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the following expensive telegram:—