THIRD DESPATCH.
“SIRE,—At the ball, Musard, His Highness, came face to face with a Parisian lion. Contrary to all dramatic rules, instead of throwing himself into the prince’s arms, as a real lion would have done, the Parisian counterfeit almost fainted, but plucking up courage he had recourse to cunning, and by this talent, common to all low animals, wriggled out of the situation.
“ ‘Sir,’ said your son, ‘how is it you take our name?’
“ ‘Son of the desert,’ replied the child of Paris in a humble tone, ‘I have the honour of observing that you call yourselves lions. We have adopted your name.’
“ ‘But,’ said His Highness, ‘what right have you, any more than a rat, to assume our name?’
“ ‘The truth is we are like yourself, flesh eaters, only we eat our flesh cooked, you eat yours raw. Do you wear rings?’
“ ‘That is not the question.’
“ ‘Well then,’ continued the Parisian fraud, ‘let us reason, and clear the matter up. Do you use four different brushes; one for the hair, another for the hands, a third for the nails, and a fourth for the skin? Have you nail scissors, moustache scissors? Seven different sorts of perfume? Do you pay a man so much a month for trimming your corns? Perhaps you do not know what a chiropodist is. You have no corns, and yet you ask me why we are called lions. I will tell you why. We mount horses, write romances, exaggerate the fashions, strut about, and are the best fellows in the world. You are happy having no tailor’s bill to pay.’
“ ‘No,’ said the prince of the desert.
“ ‘Well then, what is there in common between us? Do you know how to drive a tilbury?’