“Are you joking?” the pie exclaimed; “You a blackbird! You a pigeon! Fie! you are a magpie, my dear child, a magpie, if ever there was one—and a very pretty magpie,” she added, giving me a little blow with her wing, a tap with her fan, so to speak.
“But, my Lady Marchioness,” I answered, “it seems to me that, for a magpie, my colour, if you’ll excuse me saying so....”
“A Russian magpie, my dear; you are a Russian magpie! Don’t you know that they are white? Poor boy, what innocence!”
“But, madam,” I replied, “how should I be a Russian magpie, when I was born in the Marais in an old broken bowl?”
“Ah! the dear child! You are one of the invaders, my dear; do you fancy that you are the only one? Leave it to me, and do as I bid you; I’ll take you with me this very hour, and show you the finest things in the world.”
“Where is that, madam, if you please?”
“In my green palace, my darling; you’ll see what a life we lead there. You’ll not have been a magpie a quarter of an hour, before you’ll want to hear tell of no other thing. There are a hundred of us there; not those great village magpies, who beg alms on the high roads, but all noble and well-bred, slim, active, and no bigger than a fist. Not one of us but has neither more nor less than seven black bars and five white bars; that is an invariable rule, and we despise everybody else. You have not the black marks, it is true, but your quality of Russian will be enough to secure your admission. Our life is spent in two things, chattering and tittivating. From morning to midday we tittivate, and from midday to evening we chatter. Each of us perches on a tree, as lofty and old as possible. In the middle of the forest rises an immense oak, uninhabited alas! It was the dwelling of the late King Pie X., whither we used to go in pilgrimage, heaving mighty great sighs; but, apart from this little sadness, we pass the time wonderfully. Our wives are not prudes, any more than our husbands are jealous, but our pleasures are pure and honest, because our heart is as noble as our language is frank and joyous. Our pride has no bounds, and, if a jay or any other low fellow should chance to thrust himself in among us, we pluck him without mercy. But that does not prevent us from being the best neighbours in the world, and the sparrows, the tomtits, and the goldfinches, who live in our copses, find us always ready to help them, to feed them, and to defend them. Nowhere is there more chattering than among us, and nowhere less evil speaking. We are not without some old devotee magpies, who say their paternosters all day long, but the giddiest young gossip among us can pass, without fear of a peck, close to the severest dowager. In a word, we live on pleasure, on honour, on gossip, on glory, and on dress.”
“That is very fine indeed, madam,” I replied, “and I should certainly be ill-advised not to obey the orders of a person like you. But, before having the honour of following you, allow me, by your leave, to say a word to this good young lady here. Mademoiselle,” I continued, addressing myself to the turtle, “tell me frankly, I entreat you, do you think that I am really a Russian magpie?”
At this question, the turtle hung down her head, and turned pink, like Lolotte’s ribbons.
“Why, sir,” she said, “I don’t know if I can....”