Figaro here; Figaro, there, I tell you! Figaro upstairs, Figaro downstairs and -- oh, my goodness me, this little Figaro can slip into my ladys chamber smart as you like at any time whatsoever that he takes the fancy for, dont you know, hes a cat of the world, cosmopolitan, sophisticated; he can tell when a furry friend is the Missus best company. For what lady in all the world could say "no" to the passionate yet toujours discret advances of a fine marmalade cat? (Unless it be her eyes incontinently overflow at the slightest whiff of furr, which happened once, as you shall hear.)

A tom, sirs, a ginger tom and proud of it. Proud of his fine, white shirtfront that dazzles harmoniously against his orange and tangerine tessellations (oh! what a fiery suit of lights have I); proud of his bird-entrancing eye and more than military whiskers; proud, to a fault, some say, of his fine, musical voice. All the windows in the square fly open when I break into impromptu song at the spectacle of the moon above Bergamo. If the poor players in the square, the sullen rout of ragged trash that haunts the provinces, are rewarded with a hail of pennies when they set up their makeshift stage and start their raucous choruses; then how much more liberally do the citizens deluge me with pails of the freshest water, vegetables hardly spoiled and, occasionally, slippers, shoes and boots.

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