THE PASSIONS OF GRISETTE followed by THE DEATH OF COCHON
by Miss DESHOULIeRES
With a Note on Madame Deshoulieres by E. SANSOT-ORLAND

THE FOLLOWING COPIES ARE MADE OF THIS WORK:

Five copies on Imperial Japan paper, numbered from 1 to 5 and twelve copies on Van Gelder Zoonen Holland paper numbered from 6 to 17.

IN PARIS, at SANSOT, Bookseller, rue Saint Andre-des-Arts, 53, near the departure point of the Orleans carriages.

EDITORS' CAVEAT.

This volume, for which we have chosen the appropriate title of THE PASSIONS OF GRISETTE, is composed of the pieces Madame Deshoulieres wrote in praise of her cat. Despite the views of Sainte-Beuve, who had little regard for these compositions and who valued Madame Deshoulieres' more serious pieces, we thought that readers today would find some appeal in this series of poems which form an agreeable animal novel. The "Mercure Galant" was permitted to publish them and in 1678 they delighted the Court.

In 1688, Mademoiselle Deshoulieres in turn composed a tragedy on THE DEATH OF COCHON, the dog belonging to Marshal de Vivonne whose favour with Grisette had so scandalized the feline race. We have placed this tragedy after the mother's poems and it provides a conclusion to the first part of the volume.

We did not think it necessary to correct the undecided spellings of the 17th century: its whims are interesting in themselves.

We hope that these precious compositions will resonate in our century which is so compassionate towards animals, and that scholars and people of taste will retrospectively take some pleasure in them.

THE EDITORS.

MADAME DESHOULIERES

Madame Deshoulieres enjoys only a very limited celebrity in literature. She is barely mentioned in the least comprehensive literature manuals and it is only a matter of one of her poems being reported in outdated anthologies that gives us a poor understanding of her special talent that held an important place in 17th century lyric poetry.

In the flowery meadows
Watered by the Seine
Seek who is leading you
My dear sheep.

[Dans les pres fleuris
Qu'arrose la Seine
Cherchez qui vous mene
Mes cheres brebis.]

These few verses with their easy rhythm and free from any verbal research are in all memories (* This idyllic allegory, moreover, is said to be nothing more than a plagiarism at the expense of an obscure old poet named Coniel). Other pieces however, in the two volumes which form Madame Deshoulieres' poetic works deserve a greater esteem and we believe that the series of charming poems comprising the present volume will not contradict our view.

It will be useful, moreover, to precede them with brief notes on their author. The life of Madame Deshoulieres is indeed worth knowing: one will sometimes find it eventful and appealing like a novel.

Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde was born in Paris around 1633. She was baptized on January 2, 1638 in the church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, which has led some of her biographers to believe that she was born in the last days of 1637. Her father was the knight Melchior du Ligier, lord of the Guard, and her mother's name was Claude Gaultier. The lord of the Guard enjoyed an enviable and wealthy position. After having been butler to Queen Marie de Medici, he moved in the same capacity into the service of Queen Anne of Austria. As for the lady of the Guard, she belonged to a high-ranking family: her uncle Mr de Videville had been first intendant of finances under the reign of Henri III and president of the Chamber of Accounts of Paris.

From her early youth, Antoinette du Ligier showed an irresistible inclination for literature. Encouraged or supported by her parents, she devoted herself to it entirely. She even studied Latin, Italian and Spanish, and was familiar with these three languages at a very tender age.

When she entered the world, novels were regarded as the school of wit and politeness. She devoted herself to them in order to follow established custom, but her inclination for poetry manifested itself even more strongly and it was Jean d'Hesnault who initiated her into the rules of verse and disclosed her first attempts with an enthusiasm that was motivated even more by the charms of his pupil than by its poetic merits. It is proven that the professor wanted to play the role of Abailard towards Heloise towards his student. Mademoiselle de la Garde, if we are to believe her contemporaries, was indeed remarkably beautiful since her adolescence. In the “Eloge historique,” which the editors placed at the head of the reissue of Madame Deshoulieres' works published in MDCCLIII [1753], the charms of the young muse are described in the following terms: "Nature took pleasure in bringing together in Mademoiselle de la Garde the charms of body and mind to a point that is rare to encounter. She had an uncommon beauty, a height above the mediocre, a natural bearing, noble and considerate manners; sometimes a vivacious playfulness, sometimes a penchant for that gentle melancholy, which is not the enemy of pleasure: she danced with precision, rode a horse well and did everything with grace.”

Jean d'Hesnault's fondness for his pupil is therefore easily explained, but it seems unlikely that the young poetess encouraged him (* Jean d'Hesnault was born in 1631. He studied philosophy and was a disciple of Gassendi. He translated Lucretius into French verse. He was highly regarded during his lifetime and does not seem to deserve the severity that Bayle lavished on him. He died in 1681.) A letter that he wrote to her before his marriage (in 1649) and which has been preserved testifies that at this time at least his flame was not shared, and that Mademoiselle de la Garde was content to burn for Apollo. An extract from this letter is interesting to read for its eloquence and for the piquant tone of many passages:

"Everyone admires you, young Sappho, but no one dares to plead for you. For my part, I pity you, at least as much as I have admired you. The favours of Apollo cost you so dearly that I cannot believe that anyone is wise to envy you ... There is not a quarter of an hour in the day when you are not working... Tell me, I pray you, will all your youth be spent between Rhyme and Reason? Are you not put off by so often having the trouble of putting them back together? And must you fall out with love and pleasure in order to make them agree? . . .

How do you know that one day
Envy and hatred
Won't trouble your life?
Just in case, Sappho, feed yourself with love.

[Que scavez-vous si quelque jour
Et lit haine et l'envie
Ne troubleront point votre vie?
A tout hasard, Sapho, nourrissez-vous d'amour.]

"But perhaps you are content to make a great store of glory and you believe that, in doing so, you will reach the height of happiness...

This brilliance of greatness, this brilliance of knowing,
Until finally, glory has so much power over you,
That it demands from you a tyrannical homage,
Keeping from pleasure the most beautiful of our age,
However, could glory excite such a desire
If you did not find it itself such a pleasure?
Glory's the goal, it is true, for some vain fellows:
But, alas! Glory's pursuit gives a thousand sorrows.
While some, Sappho, have nothing but sweetness,
If you know of pleasures why do you not seek them?
If they're so well known to you, are you lacking a master?
Nature and Love will make pleasure known to you
They will both make you learned in less than a day
So listen then, Sappho, to Nature and Love...

"You are more made to win hearts than to charm minds, and you will never have a more touching pleasure than when you give yourself to the things for which you are made. Poetry must be your game and Love must be your exercise. I have told you enough to make you think about it seriously. But if what I have told you one day makes you want to take a lover, do not forget, Sappho, that I still have something to tell you."

It must be recognized that Hesnault's amiable cynicism was not lacking in eloquence. But his eloquence was in vain, and it seems that its only effect was to awaken in the young muse's heart a warmer flame towards another. In any case, shortly afterwards she gave her hand to Guillaume de la Fon de Boisguerin, lord of Houlieres, gentleman of Poitou and great-nephew of M. de Boisguerin, governor of Loudun.

Born in 1621, the Lord of Houlieres had entered the service in 1642 and had given, in many circumstances, proof of his worth. He had earned the esteem of the Duke of Enghien who, upon becoming Prince of Conde, had granted him the position of Maitre-d'Hotel to the King, a position as a Gentleman in Ordinary in his suite, lodging in his hotel and a company in one of his infantry regiments. He then became lieutenant-colonel of this regiment, then battle sergeant-major.

His marriage had barely been celebrated when the Prince of Conde called him to Guienne where the civil war had just broken out and then spread throughout the kingdom.

Madame Deshoulieres had to retire to her parents' house while waiting to be able to live with her husband in a more peaceful situation. To console herself for her temporary widowhood, she turned to philosophy, which had recently been made fashionable by the recent works of Descartes and Gassendi. The latter's theories particularly captivated her and she devoted herself to them until the day when events allowed her to join M. Deshoulieres in Flanders, where he had passed, under the orders of the Prince of Conde, into the service of the King of Spain. Her departure was delayed by an attack of smallpox which kept her ill for a long time but which left her youth and beauty unaffected.

A glittering court then resided in Brussels (1856), attached to the steps of the governor of the Netherlands, Don Juan of Austria, natural son of King Philip IV, who had just arrived laden with the laurels won in Naples and Catalonia. Under his command, no less crowned with glory, was Lieutenant-General Don Louis de Benavides, Marquis of Caracene, former governor of Milan. A large number of young Spanish and Italian lords came to learn at the school of these two masters in the art of war and, with the princesses and Flemish and foreign ladies, they composed a court above all joyful and distinguished.

By her natural merits, as much as by her knowledge of the Italian and Spanish languages, Madame Deshoulieres soon made herself particularly noticed and appreciated. Familiarly received by the Marquise de Caracene, whose palace was the usual rendezvous of the best society, many aspirants soon paid court to her and the Prince of Conde found himself at the forefront, having already taken the lead in France over his competitors.

It is not possible here to give credence to the defenders of our beautiful poetess's virtue when they say that she "could have made a glory of keeping a soul of such a high order subject to her charms, but that attached to her duties she preferred to deserve this prince's esteem rather than respond to his love." Convincing documents (*) establish that if the prince did not gain all the satisfaction he desired from the lady, he at least gained some advances and that the main obstacle to his flame was the rightful mistrust of Lord des Houlieres rather than the wife's intransigence.

(*) See a letter from Madame Deshoulieres to the Prince of Conde, reproduced in volume V of the Miscellanies published by the Bibliophiles Society dated December 22, 1656 from which we extract the following passages:

"My smallpox has made me postpone my trip, but despite my illness and the doctors' threats, I won't let go in six days ... I hope that the coming winter will bring you more pleasant things to say to me. If you want this to happen, you must be secretive and refrain from letting M. M. (my husband) know that I ever spoke to you or wrote to you in Charleville; because if he knew anything about this, it would put us on bad terms and put an end to the one you know ..."

After having pointed out to him indiscretions committed through the fault of the prince, she adds and ends thus: ... "If I should have the leisure to quarrel with you, I would do so with the greatest joy in the world. This will not prevent me from imploring you to have friendship for a Person by whom you are dearly loved. Burn my letter, it is important to me..."

In the various biographies that we have examined to compile this summary, it is related that the payment of Mr. Deshoulieres' salary having suffered a prolonged delay, it was mainly to request their settlement that his wife had gone to Brussels. This reason was all the more plausible since all the lord's assets had been seized in France and the necessity to settle this matter was felt. But the Spanish court did not allow anyone to be too hasty, and too much insistence on the part of Lord Deshoulieres caused him to be imprisoned in the castle of Vilvorde on the orders of the Prince of Conde, his former protector. This order, of which we have a copy, is dated January 5, 1657 (* Madame Deshoulieres imprisoned in the Castle of Vilvorde . . .).

It may be supposed that the prince was happy to find a pretext to get rid of a husband who was in the way of satisfying his desires. But it is difficult to know whether he obtained everything he wanted. The opposite is rather to be presumed since about four months later he gave the order to the castellan of Vilvorde to receive Madame Deshoulieres herself as a prisoner, expressly prohibiting her from having any communication with her husband.

The captivity lasted eight months and was, it is said, painful and dangerous. The Spaniards would not have spared the lives of the prisoners, if they had not been, despite their disgrace, under the protection of the Prince of Conde.

Was it, as has been maintained, a surprise move by Mr. Deshoulieres, that ended this double captivity? It is hardly possible to give credence to the biographers who report the fact, since, lacking knowledge of documents which record the imprisonment of the husband before that of his wife, they speak only of Madame Deshoulieres' captivity. In any case, taking advantage of the amnesty of 1659 which reopened the doors of the kingdom to the partisans of the Prince of Conde, the couple returned to their homeland, after having assured themselves that they would be well received there.

They were presented to the King, the Queen Mother and Cardinal Mazarin. Mr. Deshoulieres obtained the rank of Marshal of Battle at the same time as he was appointed Governor of Cette in Languedoc.

Madame Deshoulieres returned to Paris, where she found the success that had accompanied her to Brussels. Friends and admirers soon flocked to her. Since the novels of Mademoiselle de Scuderi, portraits in verse and prose were then in great vogue among the high-ranking figures of the Court and the city. The young poetess served as the subject of several of these precious compositions. She knew how to respond to them with tact and discretion. But financial troubles soon assailed her. Many creditors who had been left in arrears during the young couple's stay in Flanders showed themselves pressing and threatening upon their return. Madame Deshoulieres had already had to separate her assets from her husband, who abandoned everything he possessed to the creditors and who, from then on, sought military jobs that could be of greater profit to him.

He also rendered, in many circumstances, very great services to his superiors and mainly to Vauban in the direction of the fortifications. After having kept the Lieutenancy of the king of the city and the citadel of Doullens, he was appointed intendant of the works of Port-Louis and Belle-Ile, and in 1671, he was sent to Bayonne where he spent nearly ten years on the construction of the fortifications of Guyenne. After Vauban, Colbert and Louvois successively placed their trust in him and this is the best proof of his abilities.

During these long absences, which were interrupted by rare trips, Madame Deshoulieres distracted her boredom by exercising her talent. She did not lack gallant tributes and did not remain silent for want of responding to them with pieces that increased her reputation. Several of these appeared in the first volume of the Mercure Galant in 1672 under the pseudonym of Amaryllis which she had been given by the Duke of Grammont.

Her chief joy was dealing with writers. Among her friends she counted the highest notables of her time, including: the Duke of La Rochefoucauld, the Duke of Montausier, Conrart, Pelisson, Benserade, Charpentier, Perrault, the two Corneilles, Flechier, Mascaron, de la Monnoye, the Count of Bussy, Quinault and Menage.

This brilliant elite met frequently in her modest house on the rue de l'Homme Arme, in the Marais. It is said that her salon retained something of the precious delicacy of the Hotel de Rambouillet that Madame Deshoulieres had frequented in her last period and for which she had remained nostalgic.

Around this time, she and some other ladies were admitted to the company of men of letters who assembled at the Hotel de Matignon, at the home of the Abbe d'Aubignac and which was commonly called the Academy; but the death of the Abbe not long after, soon dispersed the learned assembly.

It was during this period, that of her maturity, that Madame Deshoulieres was especially productive in several kinds of literary works. The most serious subjects, as well as the most intimate, gave her the opportunity to exercise her muse. Madrigals, songs, epistles, eulogies, portraits, and imitations, followed one another in her inspiration with remarkable ease.

Her lively admiration for Corneille and her attachment to the Duke of Nevers made her take sides for Pradon's “Phedre,” against that of Racine; her suffrage led to many others. She spread a sonnet in which she very irreverently parodied Racine's “Phedre.” Boileau avenged Racine in his Tenth Satire with a cruel portrait of Madame Deshoulieres.

It is not known whether during this long period of her quasi-widowhood and literary coquetry she remained faithful to her husband and whether the tributes so abundantly addressed to her were always ineffective. The scandalous chronicles of the time are silent on this subject. We know that she corresponded fairly regularly with Mr. Deshoulieres. In her works we even find a letter, in the form of songs to various tunes, in which she gives her husband an account of her life and does not fail to tease him playfully:

What are your entertainments?
Do you have very sweet moments?
Landerinette,
I don't know what tells me yes
Landeriri.
At my place it's not the same
I always have a few pains...

She adds the following verse:

If it is true that a Marshal of France
Whom Louis esteems so much
Has made some tender advance for me,
He whom I believed to be indifferent
Even if you were jealous, I think
That I will pay a reckoning.

Then there are madrigals addressed to the King:

For eight days now
All loves
Have returned to live in the Palace of Versailles;
Do you know why?
It is because they follow the King.

Puis des nouvelles theâtrales:

The Hostel is preparing to give us
Corneille's old plays; . . .
I couldn't tell you anything,
Either about the Italian Theatre
Nor about that of Moliere;
They are, in my opinion, goal for goal.
And for people of great character
Outside the Hostel there is no salvation.

Then details of her family life; she tells that she lost her horses:

Being on foot is not the only sorrow
That makes me melancholy:
I sleep almost like a child,
I am alarmed, I forget myself,
And if I must finally confess it to you,
I love to the point of madness.

But she hastens to reassure her touchy husband by declaring that her flame is of no consequence to him:

Deshoulieres is always ungrateful
For those who attracted her beautiful eyes;
And her heart is like a mouse,
It is taken by a cat.

This refers to the famous Grisette who occupied such a large place in the poetess's life, especially during this period when Grisette and her friend Tata enjoyed real celebrity in the circles of the Court and the City and gained the honours of the Mercure Galant for this reason.

By leafing through the poetic works of Madame Deshoulieres, most of whose pieces bear the date they were composed, one could more or less reconstruct the second half of her life, know her preoccupations, fathom her noble psychology, survey her entourage. To her distant friends she wrote kind messages. Two bishops were among her correspondents: Mascaron and Flechier.

In 1672, having gone on a long journey in the provinces and mainly in Dauphine, she sent Mascaron a dated letter from the banks of the Lignon where she had gone as if on a pilgrimage says one of her biographers, "to go to the tomb of Astree and Celadon and take in those tender and delicate feelings that have been admired for so long, in the story of their love."

"She carefully cultivated," says Sainte-Beuve, "Flechier, who returned it to her... Living in his dioceses, in Lavaur, in Nimes, that is to say in the provinces, he somewhat regretted the world of Paris and the fine literary companies; he had all the better preserved the first taste of his youth. He corresponded, in his leisure time with Madame Deshoulieres who sometimes complained in verse of his involuntary negligence:

Damon, how tender you are!

She treats him like a "wise man of the Portico" and threatens to call on love to help friendship.

A wise being in love! What would one say?

Flechier sent her an offering, to appease her, of Narbonne honey."

In 1678 her friends obtained a favour from the king for the publication of her works but she preferred to postpone this, having previously intended to write a play in praise of the King and to compose tragedies.

She set to work and her “Genseric,” whose subject was taken from the Roman d'Astree, was performed at the Hôtel de Bourgogne theatre on 20 January 1680. The success was relative to the credit enjoyed by the author, but it was not as lasting as that of her second tragedy, “Jules-Antoine,” whose subject was taken from the Cleopatra of Calpreneda.

Following these attempts, which did not satisfy her, Madame Deshoulieres returned to her innermost inspiration; it was there that she succeeded best in capturing the favourable opinions and sympathies of those around her.

Sheltered from want by the pension granted to her, Madame Deshoulieres seemed to have nothing more to desire. Her husband, after finishing his work in Guyenne, had gone to Flanders, from where he made frequent trips to Paris. But in 1682 she had been afflicted by breast cancer, which made her suffer cruelly. The remedies she resorted to to get rid of it only made the illness worse. The verses we have from her show that from 1686 she was suffering greatly. Nevertheless, as she was very consistent, she continued to frequent her friends and to write. It was even during this period that she produced her most enduring works.

Monsieur Deshoulieres died on January 3, 1693. His children had renounced their father's inheritance, and as their mother foresaw a very sad future for them, she then wrote the allegorical verses ‘To her Sheep' in which she recommended them to the kindness of the king under the name of the god Pan.

"In the midst of these various misfortunes, and despite her age, which could be called advanced," writes the author of her Historical Eulogy, "it would seem difficult to believe... that she had retained some part of her charms; this is something, however, beyond doubt. Madame La Hay, her friend, better known under the name of Mademoiselle Cheron, took pleasure in painting her in November 1693 and it is from this valuable portrait that all the prints made of her were engraved."

In the first days of the year 1694, her illness having worsened, Madame Deshoulieres, seeing the end of her existence approaching, herself asked for the last sacraments, and on February 17, 1694 she breathed her last, in her apartment on the rue de la Sourdiere. On the 19th of that same month, she was buried in the church of Saint-Roch. She was sixty years old.

Madame Deshoulieres is worth sampling, even today, and her works are worth rereading. They can still be ranked among the best poetic productions of the reign of Louis XIV. "We admire in them," wrote the author of ‘Parnase Francois,' "the beauty of their meaning, their grace of expression, the harmony and arrangement of their rhymes. No one has spoken better of Love and noble gallantry; no one has treated morality better or made more just reflections on the human spirit." Leaving aside the excessive aspect of this praise, we agree with Sainte-Beuve when he says of Madame Deshoulieres:

"Despite her injustices against Racine, despite the enmity of Boileau and the vengeful allusions of the ungallant satirist, she survived, for a long time she enjoyed first place among women poets, and it was only in the face of newer and more disdainful tastes that her fame came to die."

Happy will we be if, through this little book, we resuscitate that fame for a moment.

E. SANSOT-ORLAND.

THE PASSIONS OF GRISETTE

CAUTION FROM MISS DESHOULIERES
(This warning precedes, in volume II of the edition of Madame Deshoulieres' poems, the pieces inspired by her she-cat Grisetted.)

The following Pieces, which you will find no less witty than playful, are on a subject that will surprise you. Madame Deshoulieres had a Cat named Grisette, who deserved to be distinguished among those of her species; for if she did not reason entirely, she gave so much appearance of reason, and so many signs of a particular discernment, that she attracted the admiration of everyone. One day a Cavalier, who had come to visit Madame Deshoulieres began to speak of her She-Cat's beauty and attested that he would have liked to make an alliance between her and a He-Cat belonging to another Lady of his acquaintance. Grisette, it is said, asked this Cavalier to pay her compliments and offer her endearments to the Feline Paramour that he intended to present to her. This He-Cat belonged to Madame la Marquise de Montglas, and was called Tata. He made the following reply to Grisette

THE PASSIONS OF GRISETTE

TATA, CAT BELONGING TO MADAME THE MARQUISE DE MONTGLAS TO GRISETTE, MADAME DES-HOULIERES' CAT.

I have received your compliment,
Your nobly expressed sentiment;
And I can see well in your manners
That you despise the tiles and gutters.
And these things meet with my approval.
No other kitty is so beautiful,
No other kitty pleased me so greatly;
To no other was I so faithful
That I loved her and her alone.
When you offer me your tenderness,
Is it in good faith you speak?
Is it possible that you have interest
In an unfortunate like me?
Alas! Is this truly sincerity?
As a lover you'd regard me!
But I am forming now a fantasy;
Could I be loved? Could I be happy?
May I describe to you my anguish?
How friendship is all I can profess,
A jealous rival, enraged and ruthless,
Found me with his lover in a tryst.
Spare me from my story painful
Of his revenge and of my shame:
Pity me my dreadful destiny,
And let your pity soothe the injury
Both in my heart and my body's pain
That I can feel no more that pleasure.
I'm unworthy of you, sweet, pretty Grisette,
This pains me more than you could guess,
That I have lost my lover's fire:
A loss made more deplorable
Because it is irreparable.

GRISETTE'S RESPONSE TO TATA

How dare you recount to me
The losses you've sustained?
This is not the way to start,
No way to win a She-cat's heart
With stories pleading of your pain.
Ha! Fie! (a pack of priceless ladies
Would quite nonchalantly cry)
Ha! Fie! again, to such a lover, say we,
And Tata, I'll dare speak to you freely,
Far more am'rous are we ladies coy.
Woe to the others, and it's their misfortune,
That tomcats are disgraced like you.
Now I, made wise and tender by happy fate,
I will excuse you from pleasures more robust,
Let us make our love more chivalrous
In witty banter let us both converse,
And never will we exhaust our desires' source.
For you I will renounce the gutters and the tiles,
Where (by the way) I have never strayed,
For I am one of those proud queens who smiles,
On those who play the greatest airs, on gallant styles.
Alas! It's by these my heart is stole away,
When I learned what the others had to say,
Of your attractions and of your address
And of your incomparable Mistress.
Ever since that dangerous moment,
My every single thought you've occupied,
How to tell you? I had some designs,
To pay you some sweet compliment
From the love engendered by you in my heart.
You confirmed to me by pleasant verse
All I have heard of your talents so diverse.
In spite of your justified sadness,
I see, dear Tata, you are a shining gallant ,
My verse is doggerel, a poor response
Compared to the fine lines flowing from your talent;
But this is rare, they say, among men too,
So what should I, Grisette, be frightened of?
When by my lines you see that I love you,
And for one who seeks my love that is enough.

Grisette's reputation was spoken about everywhere; Cats of the greatest merit wanted to tell her about it. Here are some of their courtly letters.

BLONDIN, J'S CAT, TO HIS NEIGHBOR GRISETTE ON THE RHYMES OF THE PREVIOUS PAGE.

I don't know how to tell you this, when you're causing such a stir,
I don't have enough to start with, to please you with some verse,
Or to make you hear me, you are so fond of flowery words.
You play with me, but nonchalantly, your hours too far too precious,
For another Lover you cry out (‘tis said), so freely for amorous favours.
Until finally in your rhymes and verse, you affect such wise airs.
Pleasures cannot be renounced by writing verse and rhyme,
They are renounced through lack of use, they whither and we pine
From quitting pleasant banter when we suppress desire
Often we can lose ourselves without running on the eaves,
Those fields of honourable battle where, alas, you have not been.
For at this time, you follow the prudish and the proud,
And say that you're not tempted to join the common crowd.
So many He-Cats of all kinds, they search for you with care,
And though your heart is tempted, too proud, you search elsewhere.
I'm told this is what spoils you, however you disguise it,
And how skilfully you pretend that really you despise it!
Imitate your illustrious Mistress, who loved not for a moment
And convey on my behalf my courtly compliments
To her noble and great heart, as much as a heart can be
Where Love dares not hope to make itself known, do this for me.
To captivate hearts, that same Heaven that gave her birth
Also gave her the talent for charming Prose and Verse.
She has a thousand different charms, a languorous tenderness
And the fine and gallant airs hide not the amiable sadness
In her eyes, and nothing can escape its delicateness.
It's not her only talent - the beautiful Spirit that we see
She is goodness itself, she is complacency,
We mustn't cause alarm, she dislikes praise and brilliance.
Blessed is the Cat she would like to love!

MASTER GRIS, CAT OF MADAME THE DUCHESS OF BETHUNE, TO GRISETTE.

Grisette, do you know who talks to you of love?
Who you've been looking for this past day?
I am an accomplished Cat, more handsome than a Spanish Cat,
A Cat whom fortune constantly accompanies,
This, not some Wild Cat, is what you need,
Not Tata, who in the midst of pleasure languishes,
Not knowing how to have fun, or satisfy your desires,
And who would die of hunger on a pile of cheese.
It's not, after all, that he could not amuse you,
It's not that he isn't good for something,
And like the late Bertraud you could use it;
But if on such a beauteous path your love rests,
No-one will believe you, however you protest
That with meagre frolics you're content -
A cat of few needs, what evidence can you present?
Are you teasing them? It's too far to push pretence.
Such things from me you need not hide.
You too have eyes
The most gullible to disabuse.
Keep such cunning preludes
For the young cats, ever hopeful,
Who after false virtues still only grope;
Do not ridicule my nonchalant airs
They sometimes hide violent desires.
Far from condemning them, I blame the manners
Of She-Cats who say miaou and lead us on.
Since I left the roof-gutters for this more Courtly life,
That crazy courting process I now greatly despise.
And, much as I am a He-Cat, I have a delicate soul,
I want to offer my support at times, and despite my charms
I‘d not want you to fall, without a thought, into my arms;
But for you to play the humble hypocrite,
Feigning false virtues while we know that Love solicits
You, and knowing you make eyes at certain Cats.
Well, I must tell you clearly, dear Grisette,
I'd sooner love a madwoman than a hypocrite.
So take another step with me, if you would keep
Your conquest for a long time, I am not some beast.
Farewell until the first Sabbath, Grisette
When your response to this Letter I'll expect
And when you will know that if I fight
I'll hold back no longer, that I promise.

MITTIN, MISS BOQUET'S CAT, TO GRISETTE.

You are making a noise, Grisette, and not the sort of song
That overly amorous She-Cats make the whole night long;
It's a noise that glory follows, that precious She-Cats always make,
This noise came to me, disturbed my solitude, kept me away.
I live free, free from the Laws of love and it worries me,
For it's clear all say you've a hundred rare qualities.
You've a gentle and tender look, they say, and not cats' usual eyes,
Yours convey a charming sweetness in their brilliant shine.
Skilful, beneficent Nature endowed you with a shining dress,
Of silvery-grey, much finer than a rabbit wears.
And you know how, with a hundred skilful tricks,
To solve the most annoying troubles that vex,
To make happy days and pleasant nights
For your learned Mistress.

We sometimes see you with light footsteps prance
Jump, leap and flutter in your dance
And as a gallant Puss you rise upon your feet
To reach the mirror where you are pleased
To consult your features – illustrious coquette! -
There you see an important cat and not some mere Grisette.
The blood of Rats and Mice has never soiled
Your most innocent and delicate paws.
And in love your manners are most beautiful, refined
You're not the sort to make the rooftops ring with scandalous cries
Announcing the shame of your lustful burning fires
Or surrender to some gutter tom's desires!
You explain in tender cries your torment and your ardour,
To your Mistress, may she take care of your pleasure,
And may a more worthy Gallant answer your desires,
And a more illustrious suitor quench your fires!
I could say more about the noise made every day
About your lovely charms and tender loves, but I might say
Too much. It makes my angry in my heart to see
So many attractions, so much love, and none of it for me.

The sounds you make ignite secret passions in my breast,
Which you, of all the tender cats, ignite my sweet Grisette.
So now it's time to highlight both my talents and my exploits,
My solitude and silence have deprived me of the honour of your choice.
Let me paint my picture for you, tell you I'm a very learned Cat,

It is too much to languish in an obscure life and, as finally at night
All Cats are grey, it is necessary to bring my face to light.
I look quite tall and very glorious; my eyes shine with such brilliance,
That people take my ardent pupils for sparkling Stars or Candles.
I am not subject to the accidents that befall imprudent cats,
Whose impetuous natures make unfortunate mishaps
There is nothing brutal , nothing savage, about my behaviour,
I have never made any bad use of my teeth or claws.
My seriousness shows too much wisdom, gives me airs,
Makes me seem like some severe and lettered Doctor,
But when it is necessary for me to please my Mistress,
I am playful, I am flattering, I kiss her, I caress;
And the most cheerful, brilliant youth can't equal my good humour.
Do you know with what discreet and reasonable air
From some good Meal I obtain my share?
I deftly press my paws upon the arms
Of those seated at the table, and employ my charms
They might have endless hunger, but I am not deterred
My ruses extract dainties from the least charitable person there.
Though I'm served with liberal hand, one of the best fed Cats,
I burn with unequalled ardour and will demonstrate, Grisette,
In the hunt, no Cat surpasses me, no cat in all of Paris,
And I anticipate the day my love will treat you to a hecatomb of mice.

REGNAULT, A'S CAT, TO GRISETTE.

I will not turn my brain upside down
To depict here my perfect figure to you;
But it's to tell you about my various exploits
That like so many He-Cats I set myself up as a Poet.
Another in soft jargon would boast of his defeat;
But I who day and night sets She-Cats alight,
No offense to the He-Cats, let me teach you, Grisette,
That I make kittens better than they make verse.

TATA'S RESPONSE TO GRISETTE

It's with good reason I am charmed by you, Grisette,
You have more wit than any Tomcat I have met;
Never, let me say, has any She-cat charmed me,
But in confidence I must ask you yet,
You surely are a flirt - you've quite disarmed me!
You can admit it and I'll not think you indiscreet.
The evil of coquetry is not that much indeed;
And such admission will not do you any hurt,
I will make my own admission if you need,
Despite my sorry loss, I'm still a flirt.
When love dies one can still write knowingly,
Gallantly, with knowledge of such love in mind,
Because, believe me, to speak happily
Especially of loving you will find,
Some visits to the roof-tiles are most necessary;
One does not become expert otherwise.
After all, it is a Tomcat's weakness
It's up to us to dare to play the tease,
And on this point there's really little need,
To flatter us on what comes natural to us,
We display this talent freely without cease.
In cats there are no virginal Lucreces,
And we never see prudishness in our species;
But I've no wish to anger thee,
So let us flirt, let us take pleasure,
In these things by fate decreed;
In short, let's love and at our leisure;
You've wit and spirit enough to please;
And I believe we belong together!
I present no danger to your honour,
Though enraged at my own misfortune,
A small advantage to Grisette, it's true;
For if you weren't so wise and tender,
I could not have attracted you.
Ah! you understand me, but let's change language,
For it seems I might offend,
Well, my dear Grisette, a suggestion -
A correspondence between us two;
May this faithful beau give satisfaction
In the respect he has for you.

GRISETTE'S RESPONSE TO TATA

Tata, when I give up for you
Charming Tomcats, tender too,
Planning to establish our friendship perfect,
Because a friendship is all we can do,
So why do you call me a coquette?
That reprimand is indiscreet;
Did some strange whim of yours that epithet beget
Because I have the name Grisette?
Do you some flirty heart suspect?
My name does not my nature set.

What! In order to write gallant lines to me,
You need some past experience in mind?
That it's impossible to write without some understanding
Gained from your days cavorting on the tiles
And amorous adventures in the guttering?
We feline connoisseurs think otherwise.

But we'd still have some soft weakness,
Do I really wish to flirt with you, Tata?
Alas! It's only yourself that you like to flatter,
And it's time for that mistake to cease,
I'll not hide the fact I find it an insult.
No feline Lucrece? For that matter,
There also are no feline Tarquins, Tata,
I say this without wishing to cause upset.

When Cats like you propose to please,
It should be done in better fashion,
First rid yourself of your suspicious jealousy
And stop grumbling about past passion,
Or, Tata, you cannot flirt with me.

I really do not wish to spend my days
Listening to you say that you're enraged
It's not necessary to proceed this way,
To discourage me from being sage;
And often, out of spite one may be engaged
A trifle beyond mere words and language,
In saying so, once more, nof offence is intended.

Farewell, Tata, confidante of Grisette,
Because a young women like myself,
Find no great satisfaction in your letter,
Nor satisfaction in yourself.

GRISETTE.
To the Marechal Duke of Vivonne, who pretended to believe that Mme. Deshoulieres had made a bad Rondeau which was doing the rounds.

EPISTLE.

From my Mistress on this day I got a thousand harshnesses,
From she whose troubles used to be relieved by my caresses;
I mused all afternoon, alone in a corner and sad about my destiny,
About what had upset her, and this evening it came to me.
I jumped on her bed without her seeing I was there,
Listened carefully to the story of the state in which I saw her:
Sometimes she blanched, sometimes she blushed, other times she muttered
To herself, she was distraught, I heard the curses that she uttered.

Ah! she said in choler, what force can equal mine?
This Marshal, whose esteem I prize, thinks badly of my rhyme!
We must accept that Verses make light impressions in the head,
When we misunderstand the nature in the works we've read.
If I had the animal who penned the verse which I'm accused
By the Marechal of penning - I would make of it a muse!
Her terrible speech was halted by the hot tears that she shed,
By great waves of sorrow, so I jumped down from her bed.
I'll take up her cause and quarrel, I, her faithful, tender cat,
And I would tell you how my rage inspires me to counter your attack!
But alas! My feline talents do not lie in writing well,
Or in crafting rhymes and flourishes to eloquently tell.
Let me only try to point out that the ardent, ready zeal,
Which for my wronged Mistress, in my Puss's heart I feel
Her pain and sorrow worry me, I rise to her defence,
This affront you've done to her I feel I must avenge.
Be it, Lord, that I use my paw as a Puss, or as men do,
Do not contemptuously neglect to respond to my poor lines to you.
You are not the only one, Seigneur, with whom I correspond,
There are others who engage with me, who deign to respond
Beasts like me are equal to their wits, and what we pledge we'll gain,
As you will see, Lord, if ever you triumph over the salty waves.
And far from being content, your present glory wide to spread
I'll recall perilous places where a hundred plucked laurels adorned your head;
And I will force you to confess
That a beast which is Amarille's weakness and her chosen,
Can celebrate a conquest
And between ourselves, sometimes it's well worth certain gentlemen,
That I say not what I think for sake of prudence.

LETTER FROM COCHON, THE MARECHAL DE VIVONNE'S DOG, TO GRISETTE.

What! Grisette, we couldn't believe our mind was so askew,
To think such nasty verses had been inscribed by you,
You don't know my poor deflated Marechal that well it seems.
Your unjust suspicion stung us, and with good reason;
Very well we know the talents of your Amarille
But your most severe, biting criticism will
Never make my master gnash his teeth.
But your suspicion is unjust and killing me!
My Master was offended, his soul would not have been relieved,
Had it not been your paw that traced the Letter he received.
Your Verse dispelled his troubles, and since he read your writing
He laughs, he talks, he sings, and your words he keeps reciting,
He recites them to me, looks for me wherever I am;
And along my back he runs a caressing hand.
Since then, it has always seemed to me
His soul is contented and his spirit is carefree.
I was not surprised by this, and am enchanted to have heard
The wonders that he told me about Grisette and her words.
He once paid court to your likes with assiduity
But left behind his Amarante, his Cloris and Silvie,
From Grisette to Grisette,* then his life was spent,
From Grisette to Grisette*, even at his health's expense.
Ah! It would be sweet, my dear, to cast aside hostility;
I ask if you would quickly establish commerce with me?
The old hatred between us will soon be extinguished,
And He-Cats will be jealous when antipathy's relinquished!
Let's live happily,
Let us love each other.

[*Grisette – housemaid, working-class woman or part-time prostitute]

GRISETTE.

Let us live happily, let us love each other.
In some secret gutters
I will go and meow with you,
Let's live happily, let us love each other.

GRISETTE'S RESPONSE TO COCHON.

So now you're taking steps and coming forward
To explain the reasons you made insults.
If it were up to the common mongrels
You'd deserve to suffer the shame for your kind words.
So it's nothing to you to annoy people and animals?
But perhaps one hope flatters you yet:
From the derangement which shattered this century's morals,
You think you can become my lover with a compliment,
Although you are a Dog, and although I am a Cat.
You are seriously deceiving yourself, Cochon,
When the Dog whose Olympus shines,
When from yapping Dogs yonder you'd have gathered the charms
For the slightest peccadillo in yourself,
You could not engage with me.
Nothing persuades me against what I owe to myself.
So I sacrifice both your Letter and yourself
To the most loving cat that gallant Benserade has just sent me.
So abandon the plan you have conceived
To disturb the repose of meowing families;
Make no mistake, you would be received
No more welcome than a Dog in a bowling game.
How surprised is your illustrious Marshal to see
A Grisette so insensitive to flourishes!
Let him not hold it ill against me,
If he had found all his Grisettes so severe,
If, like you, he had been deterred;
He'd never know the formidable mysteries
Of strong Love, put off by ungentle words.
But I liberate myself a little too much
For a precious & prudish Puss such as me.
This is what the habit of writing at a gallop does -
Among Human Gentlemen this excuse is customary.
The blessed explanation that it's impromptu,
Has, among fools, a certain virtue,
It shelters all the faults of such a work
From the critical storm.

Good day, most well-fleshed lapdog:
Should my friendship tempt you, it's offered tenderly and constant.
That's all I can for you, otherwise, I am your servant.

COCHON'S RESPONSE TO GRISETTE.

Eh, Grisette, is this the impression
Your heart makes on my nascent flame?
It's so amusing for you to rebuff my passion.
Mistreating yourself like this, smug little person,
Rebuffing a dog of my condition?
Grisette, you are not worthy of me.

Go search for favourites at your leisure
I was mad when I offered myself to you,
I, who am beautiful, white, like a swan,
I, who descend from father to son
Of the Cynical race in a straight line;
And who else can say without vanity
I am the living symbol of fidelity.
But all in vain, my words and deeds,
No point in a lover showing off,
If he lacks the art to please,
I ask myself, why should I persist
Against such an ill-starred love?

Much better you abandon yourself to your cursed destiny.
I will not disturb your fertile heat.
Go to the rooftops with that meowing company
And make your devils' sabbath there;
Let your terrible wedding's clamorous howling -
Be heard everywhere.
May your desires be satisfied by noisy coupling
May you live happy and content;
And henceforth left alone by me.
This barking vessel in its spirits is free.

But first, just write me some gallant missive;
For your accomplished verses lift my spirits,
It seems to me when Phoebus made them,
That the three Graces completed them.
That is high praise indeed from me -
It's not the empty praise one gives a dog.
My brilliant Marshal reposes in deep peace,
Far from all embarrassment,
Nonchalantly leads a fairly rounded life,
He, whose heroic arm fought in so many furious battles,
Who distinguished himself on the earth and on the waves
And this Hero who flees Neptune step by step,
In whose well-fleshed form so much wit abounds,
Whom you reproach softly,
With unrivalled modesty,
With the bitter memory
Of his loving frolics,
He is now a man about town,
Little wonder you don't like it

GRISETTE'S RESPONSE TO COCHON.

We would have known, even had you not said it,
That you come from a cynical breed,
The way that you answered what I'd writ,
Was proof enough indeed.
Nothing is sacred from your expert bite,
And nothing is granted grace;
You tear up everything despite
A twenty-centuries long space
That great talent of your race
Unaltered still burns bright.
Whether it be apocryphal or true,
That you count as your ancestors
That breed of biting Philosophers,
Though you have good teeth in your jaws,
The claws of cats are sharp-honed too,
However, I do not wish them to be used,
If you wanted you could dispense the hauteur,
That's unattractive in your nature,
Then, perhaps, with you I could be amused.
Perhaps you believe this She-cat too vulgar?
But of this notion you'll soon be disabused.
If you count Diogenes,
Crates of Thebes, and all the other hounds,
Me, whom you despise, for mine I count
All fabled Gods within my pedigree.
When the Titans daringly
Climbed up to the Heavens foolishly,
The god who threw his thundering lances,
Unwilling to to leave such things to chance,
Sent the Gods and Goddesses to earth for safety,
Away from the war that rent the heavens,
And, by the way, they obeyed him happily.
Of all the countries Egypt was chosen,
And there the gods went into hiding,
Adopting both pretty and ugly guises,
Safe from sight, those drinkers of ambrosia.
One took the figure of a bull, another was a bear,
And some in feathered finery were clad.
It was the supple figure of a female cat
That the Queen of Lovers chose to wear.
In feline form she was a comely Princess,
And to avoid earth-bound ennui,
She found contentment in the embrace
Of a lusty cat o'ercome by her beauty,
And after a while that glowing Goddess
Produced kittens in quantity.
It is from this source source
That I, Grisetter, draw my origins.-
Which of us, Cochon, tell truthfully,
Can best boast of quality?
Perhaps this discourse displeases you.
Let's talk about your wit which shows clearly through
In all your penned endeavours,
But is it your wit alone that knows how to please?
Are these brilliant lines in part due to your secretary
Whose fine phrases are so clever?
Between us, Cochon, I conjecture
That some sharp-witted Secretary,
Gives you more wit than you have.
I know his turn, I know his manner -
Lively, charming, and singular -
Apollo could not write such dazzling words.
For me, I must rely on my own knowledge
I tell you, if you've not already heard
That I do not roam the gutters or roof-ridges.

Never have sharp, scandalous cries
Come forth from my modest throat.
When Love makes me feel its fire,
And it's to my Mistress, her alone,
That my love's secrets I confide.
Then sensitive to the torment I display,
She finds for me a kind and worthy mate,
Do you consider this a destiny to despise?
If this Marshal's love is true,
He'd surely do the same for you;
If your master, the great Hero,
With spirit and valour enough for thirty,
Saw how Love disturbs his hound's repose,
For you he'd find a she-dog hot and flirty,
Instead you must make puppy-eyes
Forced by your needs, to idolize
A scratching Mistress fruitlessly.

COCHON'S RESPONSE TO GRISETTE.

Grisette, finally I see, when writing to you, the necessity,
Of assembling researched things,
To leaf through the Living Notebook of the mind
Be like Girardeau and know the art of animating
Over-polished paintings.
My Master encourages my plan, he is the Harmonic deity.
Already I feel his genius divine give new flourish to my writings.
I am succoured by the beautiful fire which everywhere surrounds him,
And by the profound knowledge of his brilliant mind -
I would not even fear Apollo with such a person by my side.
I'll leave behind the trivial things I penned,
They lack both intellect and art,
Sugary writers of such moral nonsense
Will merely hurt the heart.
I see but one illustrious She-Cat who deserves
The incense of the most famous minds
One in whom so much finesse shines
That she will always be the ornament of Paris.
With a single point she flatters herself when by unknown paths
Of which one finds neither vestige nor a trace,
Descended from Venus she composes a race
Through a long line of Cats,
A strange and beautiful genealogy
Descended from deep Mythology
Without knowing where or how.
In vain she flaunts all these Venerian ancestors,
And makes her Divinity ring out loud.
Since when have Cats disputed unequalled nobility
With Dogs, also descended from Divinity,
From the Cynocephalus Egyptian god Anubis
Moderate your lofty claims, my little Goddess,
And don't pine for days of fabled Scarabs
Often a common-looking one in love
Meets our kind and is sometimes
No god, but simply a Dog and a Cat like us.
We all know that those Gods on whom your pride depends
Were transformed to Crows, Owls, Screech-owls, Dog-men
And hid in other such fantastic forms to save
Themselves from abuse in ancient mythical days.
In the Carnival of disguised Gods it's still a common masquerade.
But where do you assume that Ovid says,
In that great adventure that
Venus took the figure of a Cat?
You are not making a bad invention,
To gain credit for an ingenious deception.
I really am fixed to the fabric of the Firmament!
Placed near the Polar Circles, sovereign of my scorching lands.
Agent of Belial who presides over the Dark Realms, I am
The dread Gatekeeper of Shadows in his infernal land -
Finally, let me tell you, more clearly my name -
In Heaven I'm called Procyon, and called Cerberus in Hades!
Without fiction, and without the false help of Ovid's Metamorphosis,
I can prove my divine condition by a true Apotheosis.
Never on the starry panelling of luminous Olympus,
Will Cats ascend seeking celestial mice, when descended from Aphrodite.
Queen of Grisettes, let's leave behind our decaying ancestors.
Believe me, Grisette, without them, you are worth your price.
Without frightening you by mentioning such things as love affairs
Let my suffering, smitten heart exchange sweet nothings.

GRISETTE'S RESPONSE TO COCHON.

Never had a Dog so much wisdom,
Never was a Dog so eloquent,
So much spirit, such visible affection.
Would the Immortal authors of my birth consent,
To aid me against you in my faltering obligation!

They listen to my wishes, and already I commence
To feel in my pounding heart their divine aid;
They show me your many flaws that will dissuade
This fire which would have cost my innocence.
Yes, now I notice your most maddening defect.
There's no fault greater than that unworthy weakness
That makes you renounce your learned ancestors
When you would surely be more glorious
If we could believe you had their wisdom and finesse
And that you, Cochon, could draw some nobleness
With the blood of the Gods as its source.

It's just like those humans and their foolish vanity,
They dredge up some illustrious names
That are associated with money,
From Houses glamourous and famed,
And that have an exalted history.
What if they discover names even greater still?
For sure some cunning genealogist
Will find some link, however tenuous, exists;
As often they change their clothes, they change their relatives at will;

They're governed by their pride instead of nature.
I know their faults better than they know mine.
But I did not know, Cochon, I swear,
That there were social climbers among your kind.
And here, it seems, at last we have your story:
A Cynic yesterday, a God today;
At once in heaven and on the Styx's black banks dreary
And on earth you're simultaneously placed;
Believing this, I find, is not so easy.
What! you would be these all-at-once
The great dog whose ardour burns us all?
Horrid Cerberus with triple-throated voice?
The fat dog whose baying quite unsettles,
Whose tend'rest barks to me are merely noise?
Do I seem so stupid, or so gullible,
To believe one dog is three? I'm more adroit!

When I described the gallant adventure
Venus had on the banks of the Nile,
Unlike you I resorted not to imposture.
So, you say I've not proved I'm the child
Of Venus, mother of the Graces.
And that you need more signs?
Let's leave the deeds of the first Races
In whom we still preserve the traces;
I may only have for myself
Just a single mythology.
Which book is more trustworthy,
Than a book that contains in itself
The very first Theology?

If among heaven's celestial fires
That regulate the fate of every being,
Just because your species is appearing,
Do not be so conceited you'd expire.

The Ass of ever-drunken Silenus,
A dirty, stinking he-goat, and a Scorpion hideous,
And a thousand more beasts monstrous
Like your canine constellation shine upon us.
But, Cochon, show me if you would,
A dog good enough in mind and brain,
To walk about in human shape,
As we cats did, thanks to the ancient Gods.

A handsome youth once owned a She-Cat pretty,
History says he loved her to distraction;
And every day this love-lorn madman
A hundred times kissed the mouth and paw of kitty,
But this strange love could bear no fruit;
And since he needed something more,
That poor lover was reduced
To ask the Gods to metamorphose her.

He spared no effort and he spent his earnings,
Wept a sea of tears to Goddess Venus,
And at her famous Temple in Erice
He burnt more than one sacrifice.
Until Venus finally listened to his yearning.
By excess of pity for his strange burning,
From his She-cat Venus made a woman.
Do not go to some canine ignoramus,
But know that I'm still obliged to that lovely Goddess;
For the honour given to my species,
And I can call Aesop as my witness.

But let us both forget our breeds immortal,
Let's finish, Cochon, I agree,
Let's not pursue this famous quarrel .
Be tender and to me be faithful.
Despite the Gods, I give in to troubled feelings.
These guiltless games and gallant exchanges,
Are born in us through tenderness
That cannot withstand the commerce of the senses.
So without delay let's go together
To Permessus' banks, sacred to Apollo and the Muses,
And pick those flowers that last forever.

Let's crown with them the peerless Master,
Who embellishes your words with genius divine;
And leave in the world a memory lasting
Of our uncommon love, both yours and mine.

LETTER FROM GAS, MADAME DESHOULIERES' SPANIEL,
TO MR. COUNT DE L. T.

To show you my anger,
I put pen to paper,
And now all my wrath
Bursts forth against you.
You've made me jealous;
Among us other Dogs,
I'm in a most delicate mood on this subject
To get on well with me,
This Blondin vainly flatters me,
I am no gentler,
I bite even her husband.
Despite my awkward and fierce nature,
I listened to you without spite
Praising my mistress's eyes and mouth;
Believing these sweetnesses merely a simple play of wit,
That opposed nothing. I slept on her bed.
If this memory touches you,
Don't think about taking away
The place I once had!
Do you think you deserve it?
Do you think I will give it away?
Seven times lovely Spring
Has made the fields green again.
Seven times the sad cold
Has driven away the greenery,
Since the blessed day
That I became Amarille's dog.
At her feet I saw the Court,
At her feet I saw the City
Vainly burning with love.
I alone knew the skills,
How to bring forth tenderness
In her insensitive heart.
Disturb my happiness no longer:
When, to avenge her honour,
The little corrupting God
Which she overcomes everywhere,
Would decide to my shame
On the rights that I claim,
Know this, illustrious Count -
I have very good teeth.

LETTER FROM GAS, MADAME DESHOULIERES' SPANIEL,
TO CROPPED-EARS, TURNSPIT-DOG BELONGING TO M. . .

I learn from all sides that despite
The fates that made you a mastiff,
You are nevertheless a wonderful hunter.
This great hare was caught by valiant Cropped-Ears
(They said the other day while opening a pate)
Bring wine, let's drink to his health
Let many bottles be emptied:
Then, with glasses in hand, your praises were sung.
Blondin, two Abbots, and more than one beauty,
Did this with great zeal.
As a faithful Spaniel, I make a very faithful report,
I was present throughout, and saw without pain
All the esteem, and all the honour
That followed your hunt;
Next to Amarillis, content with my happiness,
Nothing is able to make me envious
So I determined in this happy moment
To tell you without flattery,
That you did well to leave the kitchen
Where you were often beaten.
I infinitely esteem those who by their virtue
Deny their low origin.
Never has the state of others made me jealous.
And despite the great difference
That Heaven has placed between us,
I am willing to make your acquaintance
And establish commerce with you.
Let us become good friends, abandon your turnspit,
Go like a spaniel, a hound, or a bloodhound,
Throughout the countryside to catch game;
Fear neither complaint nor reproach on this,
No-one makes his profession.

THE DEATH OF COCHON,
MR. MARSHAL DE VIVONNE'S DOG.
TRAGEDY BY Mlle DESHOULIERES 1688.

Antoinette-Therese Deshoulieres, born in 1602, followed in her mother's footsteps, but at a distance, due to her inferior talent. The judgment she made of her own verses is simple and touching; she formulated it on the occasion of their publication in a volume following a reissue of her mother's works: "People will be surprised that I dare to put the little work I have done after those of my mother. I know well the difference, but when I join my verses to hers in the same volume, I am only following her intention, happy to provide them with the only means they have of passing down to posterity."

She won a prize from the Academie française for her debut. She continued to cultivate her mother's surviving friends, and was elected a member of the Academie des Ricovrati. She died in 1718, aged 56, from the same illness that had taken her mother's life.

ACTORS
GRISETTE - Madame Deshouillieres' She-cat, in love with Cochon.
MIMY - Madame Deshouillieres' Tomcat, in love with Grisette.
MARMUSE - Madame Deshouillieres' He-cat, Mimy's Confidante.
CAFAR, Cat belonging to Minimes of Chaillot, Deputy of the Village Cats.
A Troupe of Neighbourhood Cats.
LOVE

The Scene is a house in Paris, the home of Madame Deshouillieres.

THE DEATH OF COCHON, MONSIEUR LE MARECHAL DE VIVONNE' DOG
A TRAGEDY.

The Theater opens, and represents a flat terrace level with the guttering.

SCENE I
MIMY, MARMUSE, Chorus of Neighbourhood Cats.

MIMY.
I can no longer suffer the rigours that Grisette
Imposes on me, nor the torment.
She mistreats me, preferring Cochon, you know. The ingrate!
Heavens, what a disturbance
That a cat should choose a dog for her sweetheart.
Can you believe it my dear Marmuse,
Can you imagine my excessive hurt
That for a year – no for two -
An ugly dog has that heart which was to me refused!

MARMUSE.
Mimy, I can feel your desperation,
I can barely express my sensitivities,
My awful feelings against that heartless beauty;
And besides I am your loyal companion,
Believe me when I say forget that cat
Give up on she who's so indelicate,
That she favours a Dog above the most perfect Tomcats.

MIMY.
I cannot stop worshipping her allures;
But today I'll finally explode with with vengeance.
Please do not abandon me, Marmuse
Come help me punish an ungrateful mistress.

MARMUSE.
Nothing is more sacred than to serve a friend,
Let's go, Mimy, I offer you my willing hand,
And I wait gladly for your command.

SCENE II
MIMY, MARMUSE, CAFAR, Chorus of Neighbourhood Cats.

CAFAR.
Listen handsome tomcats, great news has come,
Cochon has just lost the day.
To a cruel and frightful rage -
Grisette is robbed of the object of her Love.

MARMUSE.
The heart of Grisette
Is for rent today.
With this Coquette
Who wants to play?
But I'm thinking that
As an important Cat,
I will do nothing,
That could make others
Say my heart aspires
To a dog's leftovers.

MIMY.
What favorable hand has washed away
Our insult in this cursed dog's blood?
Cafar, tell us the story if you would
Of the agreeable events of this day.

MARMUSE.
Do not imitate the triumphant style
Of those mortals who as Beautiful Minds are known.
Their talk could make an Elephant out of a Fly,
And we could travel from Paris to Rome,
Before they could express the sorrow of a child
From whom an apple was stolen.

CAFAR.
I do not care to be so dull or silly.
It happened in Chaillot, a nearby village,
A fruitful, pleasant place and populous beside.

MARMUSE.
Just as I said – we'll be in danger of dozing off
Before you even get to Cochon's death,
It would take less time to turn you into a muff
You glorious windbag with your boring eloquence.

CAFAR, to Mimy.
You fool, is all this really necessary?

MIMY.
Do not be diverted at his fits of rage.

CAFAR.
For a while, as we must surely be aware,
Chaillot has been the usual residence
Of a Marshal brave as long-dead Caesar,
As wise as a Cato, and as learned as Homer.

MARMUSE.
Please stop there, my friend Cafar,
It's not your place to reciting eulogies,
We all know this Marshal,
Know what he can do, know of his deeds,
And we love him, with the faith of animals.

CAFAR, to Mimy.
Don't you want to shut him up, Mimy?
Silence the rascally little Tomcat?

MIMY, to Marmuse.
Shh! Marmuse, listen, even if it's just to please me.

MARMUSE.
Then I will tell it all, if you'll permit.

CAFAR.
His Master's favours made Cochon full of pride,
The wrath of the other Dogs knew no bounds:
It it too much, they said, we'll get revenge for all the hounds;
Who do not want this traitor by our side.
At that moment rage offered herself to them:
If one of you will take me in today.
Without it being perceived in any way,
To the prideful one I'll deal punishment.
Citron, with no thought and no delay,
Opened up his soul to cruel rage.
First this nimble dog was seen
Running wildly throughout the Village,
Then he seized Cochon in an ugly scene,
And right away he did him in.

MIMY.
Our fortunes have now become favourable.
That Dog, that formidable Rival,
Who made us neglect our tender interest,
Fate has stopped him in a manner irrevocable.
But perhaps the Love-pangs that we found unbearable
Will not be comforted in completeness.
Grisette will mourn her vanished pleasures strange
When we love, is it an advantage,
To see the proud object to whom we pay homage,
Have her lovely eyes ever full of sorrow's pain?

CAT CHORUS.
Miaou, miaou, we are avenged,

MARMUSE, to Mimy.
Instead of spreading pretty words,
We'd better go to the house with careful tread
To steal some soles, or from what I've heard,
Some capons, well fattened from the diet fed,
That I knew we've not yet eaten yet.

MIMY.
Marmuse, another thought is worrying my mind.

MARMUSE.
Like the Hero of a Romantic Novel, will you find,
That maybe you are being duped, my friend?

CAT CHORUS.
Miaou, miaou, we are avenged.

SCENE III
GRISETTE, MIMY, MARMUSE, CAFAR, Chorus of Neighbourhood Cats.

GRISETTE.
Cruel Tomcats, what's this you say of me?
Do you think I'm insulted or outraged?

CAT CHORUS.
Meow, meow, we are avenged.

GRISETTE.
If my cruel troubles are not enough for thee
My just despair will end my woe I fear.
Meow, meow, flow, flow my tears.
Despite the natural hostility,
That Heaven imprints in our hearts at our birth,
Cochon disarmed my austerity,
For him I lost for my reputation for harshness.
Miaou, meow, flow, flow my tears.

MARMUSE.
Grisette, blush for your foolish grief.
CAT CHORUS.
Grisette, blush for your foolish grief?

GRISETTE.
No, it is not enough to to simply cry
My lover's death demands my own.
Let's die for my illustrious Cochon:
To the wandering spirits of lovers I will be a sacrifice.
No, it is not enough to to simply cry
My lover's death demands my own.

MIMY.
So, unkind, barbaric queen it's not enough
That you betray your duty.
But through a passion strange enough,
Just as your rival's death rekindles hope in me,
I must now be forced to see
You prepare more pain to punish me for my love.
Fear that paw. . .. ah! my reason strays, enough!
I'm shivering. . . .. I die. . . .

MARMUSE, to Mimy.
Good night.

MARMUSE, to Grisette.
He's a devil when something raises his ire,
Do not expose yourself to his flaming wrath.
When he invites you to satisfy his inner fire.
But Cochon had no other qualities
Than to by both a Hero and by Grisette be adored.

GRISETTE.
That Hero's choice was author of my fatal weakness.
And for my lover by his own pain he's sorely pressed.
My dear Cochon, the most handsome of all dogs.
Miaou, miaou.

MARMUSE.
Such a plague of miaous.
Oh you beauty so capricious,
Be a little less precious.
Ridicule follows closely on the heels of fashion,
That collection of wonders,
This Cochon, your beloved,
His tail was docked, as too were his ears.
He was, ‘tis said, saved from the Marseilles sewer,
Named “Pig” for his appearance,
So much did he that filthy beast resemble.
Breathed from his mouth a fearful smell,
Which could be smelled a hundred paces all around.
A disteller's discerning eye was all that's left.
Apart from that he was the handsomest dog in the world.

GRISETTE, CAT CHORUS.
Grisette: No, Cochon was made to inflame my heart,
Chorus: No, Cochon was made to injure the heart.

MARMUSE.
Throughout the course of his whole life,
There was no day, without exception,
That he did not harbour the sincere desire
To always devour someone.
Capons, Partridge, down his deep gullet he hurled,
Without him bothering to chew them.
No caress or benefactions moved him.
Apart from that he was the handsomest dog in the world.

GRISETTE.
Why do you dare deliver such blows to my heart?
Ah! what horrors, and what blasphemy!
Slanderous Tomcats fear me,
Fear my extreme fury,
Tremble and shake before me.
You, divine Venus, from whom I am descended,
Come here to defend my rights
Give me tenderness and take revenge divine -
Punish these roof dwellers
For their brutal insolence,
For they offend a gentle child of thine.

MARMUSE.
We don't fear the Goddess's revenge.
In Egypt on the Nile's banks she dwelt,
And took a Tomcat for her husband then.
So with the Goddess we're acquainted well,
Stop invoking the lovely Goddess,
Grisette, return to your own species,
Your destiny will be much sweeter.

CAT CHORUS,
Grisette, return to your own species,
Your destiny will be much sweeter.

GRISETTE.
It's for Cochon alone that I have tenderness,
Though you might have a thousand times more envy,
It's still for him alone that I have interest.

CAT CHORUS.
Grisette, return to your own species,
Your destiny will be much sweeter.

MARMUSE.
Minuet.
You need not be mad nor a fool,
To love a paramour who's dead and gone.
Humans all are in accord,
And we learn also at their school
That the absentee is always wrong.

MIMY.
She's already gone, ungrateful wretch,
She has fled my burning flame.
Cruel kitty, stop! I call your name -
Grisette, Grisette, Grisette.

CAT CHORUS.
Grisette, Grisette, Grisette.
Stop, stop, cruel Cat, Grisette!

SCENE IV.
LOVE, MIMY, MARMUSE, CAFAR and CAT CHORUS.

LOVE (sitting astride the guttering)
Tender Tomcat, let her go,
Your misfortune in a while will end.
I swear by my bow, and by my mother Goddess.
That constancy is just a pipe-dream,
And Grisette will weary soon enough of grieving.

CAT CHORUS.
Love, please believe us, by God we'll be avenged.

THE END.

TABLE

EDITORS' CAVEAT - 5
MADAME DESHOULIeRES - 7
WARNING FROM MISS DESHOULIERES - 27
Epistle from Tata to Grisette - 29
Reply from Grisette to Tata - 32
Blondin to Grisette - 35
Dom Gris to Grisette - 38
Mittin to Grisette - 41
Regnault to Grisette - 46
Reply from Tata to Grisette - 47
Reply from Grisette to Tata - 49
Grisette To Monsieur le Marechal Duc de Vivonne - 51
Epistle from Cochon, to Grisette - 55
Reply from Grisette to Cochon - 58
Reply from Cochon to Grisette -61
Reply from Grisette to Cochon - 64
Reply from Cochon to Grisette - 68
Reply from Grisette to Cochon - 72
Letter from Gas to Mr. Count de L. T - 77
Letter from Gas to Cropped-Ears, Turnspit-Dog of M - 80
The Death of Cochon – 83

From the printing house of Repesse-Crepel and Sons, Arras.