The stars are out at night.
So are cats!
——:o:——
A MANIFESTO BY HICTOR VUGO
We live and move and have our being. By we I express civilisation, which consists first of Paris, then the world at large. We are born with generous instincts. We are naturally humane. I call upon the French Revolution of ’92-3 to prove this theory. We cannot all be Arabis. That would be too supreme a dream. But we can all admire him at a distance. Those horrible canaille the English have warred against a weak race of striplings, descendants of the glorious mummies. They have fought, and aided by the magnificent single-minded abstinent France have won. Mon dieu! Why was I not there? With one impassioned foot firmly planted on the escarpment of Tel-el-Kebir, I would have kept these British brutes at bay. I would have quoted one of my rhythmic poems, and they would have piled arms, awe-stricken and listened. Or, perhaps, these island savages in their ignorance, would have shot me. They are sufficiently unrefined for that. Ah! the thought is too dreadful. France, my beloved France, would in such a case have died also, for with me will perish all the ideas which go to make a great race—Adolphe, bring me a cigarette and a café noir. I would be calm.
The Ninety-nine Guardsmen.
By Alexandre Dumas.
This parody, which is to be found in Bret Harte’s Sensation Novels Condensed is an ingenious mixture of “The Three Musqueteers” and “The Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
The second chapter is the best:—