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temptation. You won’t give me away to the
game-keeper, will you?”
“No, my friend, and you won’t give me away
to the butler that we came home so late?”
“Of course not.”
“Leo, are you at least sorry that you stole
that young pheasant?”
“I am trying to be sorry.”
“But it is not easy,” said I.
“No,” muttered Leo, licking his lips.
“Leo, you are a thief, and you are not the
only one here, and you are a bad watch-dog!
You who are here to keep thieves away, why
don’t you rouse your master at once with that
big voice of yours instead of sitting here looking
at me with such friendly eyes?”
“I can’t help it. I like you.”
“Leo, my friend, it is all the fault of the
drowsy night-watchman up there in the sky!
Why didn’t he turn his bull’s eye lantern on
every dark corner of the park where there is a
bench under an old lime-tree instead of pulling
his nightcap of clouds over his bald old head and
dozing off to sleep, handing over his job as a
night watchman to his friend the owl? Or did
he only pretend he was asleep and keep
watching us the whole time from the corner of his
wicked eye, the sly old sinner, decrepit old Don
Juan, strutting about among the stars like le
vieux marcheur on the boulevards, too worn out
himself to make love but enjoying still to watch
others making fools of themselves.”
“Some people pretend the moon is a beautiful
young lady,” said Leo.
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