In my memory the adventure
shines, of course, as a vague blur of light and joy; a child's first
visit to the play, and that play _The Count of Monte Cristo_! It was
all the breath-taking pleasantness of romance made visible, audible,
actual. A vague blur of light and joy, from which only two details
separate themselves. First, the prison scene, and an aged man, with a
long white beard, moving a great stone from the wall; then--the figure
of Mercedes. I went home terribly in love with Mercedes. Surely there
are no such _grandes passions_ in maturer life as those helpless,
inarticulate ones we burn in secret with, before our teens; surely we
never love again so violently, desperately, consumedly. Anyhow, I went
home terribly in love with Mercedes. And--do all children lack
humour?--I picked out the prettiest young ladyish-looking mouse in my
collection, cut off her moustaches, adopted her as my especial pet,
and called her by the name of my _dea certe_.
All of my mice by this time had become quite tame. They had plenty to
eat and drink, and a comfortable home, and not a care in the world;
and familiarity with their master had bred assurance; and so they had
become quite tame, and shamefully, abominably lazy. Luxury, we are
taught, was ever the mother of sloth. I could put my hand in amongst
them, and not one would bestir himself the littlest bit to escape me.
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