I

von Robert W. Chambers

The cat paused at the doorway, alert and ready to bolt if needed. Severn set down his palette and extended a welcoming hand. The cat remained still, her yellow eyes locked onto him.

“Come in, Puss,” he said in a soft, inviting tone.

The tip of her slender tail flicked hesitantly.

“Come in,” he repeated.

She seemed to find comfort in his voice, slowly lowering herself onto all fours, her eyes still fixed on him, her tail tucked beneath her thin body.

Severn stood up, smiling. She watched him quietly as he approached, bending down without a flinch. Her gaze followed his hand until it gently touched her head, prompting a ragged mew from her.

It had long been Severn’s habit to talk to animals, likely because he spent so much time alone. “What’s the matter, Puss?” he asked gently.

Her timid eyes searched his.

“I understand,” he replied softly. “You’ll get what you need right away.”

He moved quietly around the room, rinsing a saucer and filling it with the leftover milk from the bottle on the windowsill. Kneeling down, he crumbled a roll into his hand.

The cat rose and cautiously approached the saucer.

Using the handle of his palette knife, he mixed the crumbs with the milk and stepped back as she eagerly dipped her nose into the mixture. He watched her in silence, the saucer clinking against the tiled floor as she reached for morsels along the edge. Eventually, the bread was gone, and her purple tongue swept over every untouched spot until the saucer gleamed like polished marble. Then she sat up, turned her back to him, and began to groom herself.

“Keep it up,” Severn said, intrigued. “You could use it.”

She flattened one ear but didn’t stop her meticulous cleaning. As the grime slowly disappeared, Severn noticed that nature had intended her to be a white cat. Patches of her fur were missing, likely due to illness or the struggles of survival. Her tail was bony, and her spine was sharp. Yet, as she licked herself vigorously, her hidden charms began to emerge. He waited patiently for her to finish before continuing the conversation. When she finally closed her eyes and tucked her forepaws under her chest, he spoke again, gently: “Puss, tell me your troubles.”

At the sound of his voice, she emitted a rough rumble that he recognized as an attempt to purr. He leaned down to rub her cheek, and she mewed again, a curious little sound that prompted him to respond, “Yes, you’re looking much better. Once you regain your strength, you’ll be a stunning creature.” Flattered, she stood up and circled his legs, nudging her head against them and making pleased sounds, to which he replied with polite seriousness.

“Now, what brought you here?” he asked. “To the Street of the Four Winds, climbing five flights to the very door where you’d be welcomed? What stopped you from fleeing when I turned from my canvas to meet your yellow eyes? Are you a Latin Quarter cat, just as I am a Latin Quarter man? And why do you wear that rose-colored, flowered garter around your neck?” The cat had climbed into his lap, purring as he stroked her thin coat.

“Forgive me,” he continued in a relaxed, soothing voice that matched her purring, “if I seem forward, but I can’t help but wonder about this rose-colored garter, so quaintly flowered and fastened with a silver clasp. I can see the mint mark on the edge, as required by the law of the French Republic. So, why is this garter made of rose silk and delicately embroidered? Why is it around your thin neck? Am I being indiscreet in asking if its owner is also yours? Is she an elderly lady reminiscing about her youthful days, doting on you, adorning you with her personal belongings? The size of the garter suggests this, as it fits you snugly. But then I notice—because I notice everything—that the garter could easily be adjusted. Those five small silver-rimmed eyelets indicate that. And now I see that the fifth eyelet is worn out, as if the clasp’s tongue often rested there. That suggests a fuller form.”

The cat curled her toes in contentment. Outside, the street was very quiet.

He continued softly, “Why would your mistress adorn you with something so essential to her? Well, at least most of the time. How did she manage to slip this piece of silk and silver around your neck? Was it just a whim—perhaps when you, before you lost your youthful roundness, marched into her bedroom singing to greet her? Of course, she must have been sitting up among the pillows, her hair cascading down her shoulders, as you jumped onto the bed, purring, ‘Good day, my lady.’ It’s easy to picture,” he yawned, leaning his head back against the chair. The cat purred, her soft claws kneading his knee.

“Should I tell you all about her, cat? She is stunning—your mistress,” he murmured sleepily. “Her hair is as heavy as burnished gold. I could paint her—not on canvas, though—because I would need shades and tones more magnificent than those of a brilliant rainbow. I could only capture her in my mind, for only in dreams can I find the colors I need. For her eyes, I would need the deepest blue of a cloudless sky—the skies of dreamland. For her lips, roses from the gardens of slumber, and for her brow, snow from mountains that reach fantastical heights toward moons far beyond our own—the crystal moons of dreamland. She is—so—beautiful, your mistress.”

His words faded, and his eyelids grew heavy.

The cat, too, had fallen asleep, her cheek resting against her thin side, her paws relaxed and limp.