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The act over, the cat turned and snarled and only jumped into its cage
after a smart flick of the whip. The dwarf did not touch it once with
his hands. I applauded, however, and complimented him. He laid his hand
on his heart and bent forward in humility.
"Ah, monsieur, I am but a neophyte where Madame is an expert. I know the
superficial nature of cats. Now and then without vainglory I can say I
know their hearts; but Madame penetrates to and holds commune with their
souls. And a cat's soul, monsieur, is a wonderful thing. Once it was
divine--in ancient Egypt. Doubtless monsieur has heard of Pasht? Holy
men spent their lives in approaching the cat-soul. Madame was born to
the privilege. Pasht watches over her."
"Pasht," I said politely in French, in reply to this clotted nonsense,
"was a great divinity. And for yourself, who knows but what you may have
been in a previous incarnation the keeper of the Sacred Cats in some
Egyptian temple."
"I was," he said, with staggering earnestness. "At Memphis.


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