The Story of a Cat

Neither seemed disposed to begin hostilities. Finally the dog rushed upon his adversary, who avoided him adroitly, passed underneath him, and fled in the direction of the quay, the bull-dog giving chase. Away they went, darting among the crowd of pedestrians and in and out between the carriages. In a natural spirit of imitation, the wandering dogs that encountered them running joined in the race, and at the end of a minute Moumouth had more than thirty-seven dogs in pursuit of him.

"I am lost," he says to himself, "but at least I shall sell my life dearly."

He backs against a wall, and braces himself haughtily on his feet; his teeth gnashing, his hair bristling, he faces his numerous enemies with so terrible an eye that they recoil like a single man. Profiting by their hesitation, he turns suddenly and scrambles to the top of the wall. He is soon beyond the reach of the dogs, but he is not yet in safety; if he makes a false step, if his strength gives out, if the plaster crumbles under his claws, twenty yawning mouths, hungry for slaughter, are there to tear him to pieces!

In the meanwhile, Mother Michel had passed the night in lamentation. She could not control her grief, for the loss of Moumouth; she called him continually in a plaintive voice, and—if we may credit the popular song—the neighbors heard her cry at the window: "Who will bring him back to me?"

The next morning, at the rising of the smiling sun, the perfidious Lustucru presented himself before Mother Michel in order to say to her:—

"Well, my dear companion, have you found him?"

"Alas, no!" she murmured. "Have you any news of him?"

"Nothing positive," replied the steward, who wished to torment the poor woman; "but I dreamed of him all night long; he appeared to me in a dream, with his face pale and an exhausted air, like a cat who did not feel very well."

"In what place was he?"

"He seemed to be in a garden, at the foot of a lilac-bush."

Mother Michel instantly ran to the garden, where, as you may imagine, she did not find Moumouth.

During the whole day Lustucru amused himself by giving her false exultations, which were followed by increased despondency.

"Mother Michel," said he, "just now, in passing the store-room, I thought I heard a kind of meyowing."

Mother Michel hastened to visit the store-room.

Presently he came to her out of breath, and said:—

"We have him at last! I am nearly certain that he is rummaging in the cellar."

And Mother Michel ventured into the gloomy vaults of the cellar, where she encountered nothing but rats.

It was near the close of the day that Lustucru pronounced these words, which a popular song has happily preserved for us:—

The words were full of a bitter raillery, which Father Lustucru was unable to disguise. To pretend that Moumouth was hunting rats with his little straw gun and his wooden sword was to suppose something quite unlikely, for nobody ever saw a cat make use of such arms. But the agonies of Mother Michel had so confused her mind, that she noticed only what could give her a gleam of hope.

"He is in the garret!" she cried, without paying attention to the rest of the verse. "Let us hasten there, my dear sir; let us search for him. Give me your arm, for I am so nervous, so troubled, so harassed by fatigue, that I have not the strength to get up alone."

The two mounted to the garret, and Mother Michel, lantern in hand, searched in the attic and under the roof. Silence and solitude reigned everywhere.

"You are again mistaken," murmured Mother Michel.

"No, no," replied the malicious man; "let us continue to hunt, we shall finish by finding. We haven’t looked there—behind those fagots."

The credulous Mother Michel advanced in the direction indicated, and—to the great stupefaction of Lustucru—the cat, which he believed drowned, appeared in full health and strength, and fixed its gaze upon him indignantly.

"It is he! it is he!" cried Mother Michel, seizing Moumouth in her arms. "Ah, my dear Lustucru! my good and true friend, how I thank you for conducting me here!"

The steward had scarcely any taste for compliments which he so little merited. Pale-faced and cold, he hung his head before his victim, whose preservation he could not explain to himself. It was, however, a very simple thing: Moumouth, pursued by the dogs, succeeded in leaping from the wall, and, passing from gutter to gutter, from garden to garden, from roof to roof, had reached his domicile; but, dreading the resentment of his enemy, he had not dared to appear, and had hidden himself in the garret.

"Am I the dupe of a nightmare?" said Father Lustucru to himself. "Is it really that rascal of a Moumouth that I have there under my eyes, in flesh and bone? Isn’t it his ghost that has come back to torment me? This cat, then, is the evil one in person!"

The cat was not the evil one—Providence had protected him.

he events we have recorded indicate very clearly the position of our personages. Fearing to lose both the well-beloved cat and the advantages she was ambitious to obtain, Mother Michel redoubled her vigilance and attention.

Moumouth, knowing henceforth with whom he had to deal, promised himself to avoid the steward, or to fight him, if need be, with tooth and nail.

As to Father Lustucru, it was enough that his projects had been defeated, in order that he should persist in them with desperation. He now wished the destruction of the poor and innocent cat, not only on account of his jealousy of Mother Michel, but because he hated the cat itself.

"Oh, what humiliation!" he said to himself, with bitterness. "I ought to hide myself, retire to a desert, and bury me in the bowels of the earth! What! I, Jérôme Lustucru, a grown man, a man of knowledge and experience, a man—I dare say it—charming in society, I am vanquished, scoffed at, taken for a dupe, by a cat of the gutter!... I leave him at the bottom of a river, and find him at the top of a house! I wish to separate him from his guardian, and I am the means of bringing them together! I lead Mother Michel to the garret to torture her, and there I witness her transports of joy! The cat I believed dead reappears to defy me!... He shall not defy me long!"

And Father Lustucru remained absorbed in deep meditation.

Moumouth had not yet dined that day, and he made it plain by expressive miauing that he would very willingly place something under his teeth. Presently, Mother Michel said to him—for she spoke to him as if he were an intelligent being,—

"Have patience, sir; we are going to attend to you."

She descended to the parlor, which she habitually occupied since the departure of Madame de la Grenouillère, and the cat, who accompanied Mother Michel, was clearly displeased at seeing her take the road to the chamber of Lustucru. Nevertheless, he went in with her, persuaded that in the presence of that faithful friend the steward would not dare to undertake anything against him.

At the moment she knocked at the door, Father Lustucru was taking from the shelf a green package which bore this label: Death to Rats.

"This is the thing," he said to himself, thrusting the paper into his vest. "Death to Rats should also be Death to Cats. Our dear Moumouth shall make the trial.... What can one do to serve you, my good Mother Michel?"

"It is five o’clock, M. Lustucru, and you forget my cat."

"I forget him!" cried the steward, clasping his hands as if very much hurt by the suspicion, "I was just thinking of him.... I am going to prepare for him such a delicious hash that he will never want another!"

"Thanks, Monsieur Lustucru! I shall inform Madame, the Countess, of your care for her favorite. I have received a letter from her this very day; she sends me word that she shall return shortly; that she hopes to find Moumouth in good condition, and that she has in reserve for me a very handsome reward. You comprehend my joy, Monsieur Lustucru! My sister is left a widow with four children, to whom I hand over my little savings each year. Until now this assistance has not been much; but, thanks to the gifts of Madame, the Countess, the poor children will be able to go to school and learn a trade."

In pronouncing these words the eyes of Mother Michel were moist and bright with the most sweet joy,—that which one experiences in performing or meditating good actions. The steward, however, was not affected. He had so given himself up to his evil passions that they completely mastered him, and had by degrees stifled all generous sentiments in his soul, as the tares which one lets grow choke the good grain.

One would have said that Moumouth understood this man. The cat approached Mother Michel, who had seated herself to chat awhile, and looking at her with supplicating eyes, pulled at the skirt of her robe, as if to say to her:—

"Come, let us go!"

"Take care!" said the good creature, "you will tear my dress."

Moumouth began again.

"What is it? Do you want to get out of here?" asked Mother Michel.

Moumouth made several affirmative capers in the air.

"Decidedly," she added, "this cat is not contented anywhere but in the parlor."

She rose and withdrew, preceded by Moumouth, who bounded with joy.

A quarter of an hour afterward the steward had prepared a most appetizing hash composed of the breast of chicken, the best quality of bread, and other ingredients justly esteemed by dainty eaters. After adding a large dose of the "Death to Rats," he set the hash down in an adjoining room, and, opening the parlor door, cried:

"Monsieur is served!!"

On beholding this delicate dish, Moumouth thrilled with pleasure, for, to tell the truth, he was rather greedy. He stretched his nose over the plate, and then suddenly retreated, arching his back. A sickening and infectious odor had mounted to his nostrils. He made a tour round the plate, took another sniff, and again retreated. This animal, full of sagacity, had scented the poison.

"Well, that is very extraordinary," said Mother Michel; and, having vainly offered the food to her cat, she went to find Lustucru, to inform him what had occurred.

The traitor listened with inward rage.

"What!" said he, "he has refused to eat it? It is probably because he is not hungry."

"So I suppose, Monsieur Lustucru; for your hash looks very nice. I should like it myself, and I’ve half a mind to taste it, to set Moumouth an example." At this, Father Lustucru, in spite of his hardness, could not help trembling. For a minute he was horrified at his crime, and cried hastily:—

"Don’t touch it, I beg of you!"

"Why not? Is there anything wrong in the hash?"

"No, certainly not," stammered Father Lustucru; "but what has been prepared for a cat should not serve for a Christian. It is necessary to guard propriety, and not trifle with the dignity of human nature."

Mother Michel accepted this reasoning, and said, a little snappishly:—

"Very well; Moumouth may suit himself! I do not wish to yield to all his fancies, and I shall not give him anything else."

The following day the hash was still uneaten.

The steward had hoped that the cat, pressed by hunger, would have thrown himself upon the poisoned food; but Moumouth knew how to suffer. He put up with abstinence, lived on scraps and crumbs of bread, and recoiled with terror every time that his guardian offered him the fatal plate, which finally remained forgotten in a corner of the closet in the antechamber.

Father Lustucru, seeing that his plot had not succeeded, was more irritable than ever. The desire to rid himself of Moumouth became a fixed idea with him, a passion, a monomania; he dreamed of it day and night. Each letter in which Madame de la Grenouillère demanded news of the cat and repeated her promise of recompense to Mother Michel, each sign of interest given by the Countess to her two favorites, increased the blind fury of their enemy. He thought of the most infernal plans to demolish Moumouth without risk to himself, but none of them seemed sufficiently safe and expeditious. Finally he decided on this one:—

On a heavy pedestal, in the chamber of Mother Michel, was a marble bust of Louis XIV., represented with a Roman helmet and a peruke interlaced with laurel-leaves. Behind this bust was a round window, which looked upon the staircase; and just in front of the pedestal was the downy cushion that served as a bed for Moumouth, who would certainly have been crushed if the bust had taken it into its head to topple over.

One night Lustucru stole noiselessly into the chamber of Mother Michel, opened the round window, which he was careful to leave ajar, and retired silently. At midnight, when everybody was asleep in the house, he took one of those long brooms, commonly called a wolf-head, placed himself on the staircase opposite the small window, rested his back firmly against the banister, and, with the aid of the wolf-head, pushed over the bust, which tumbled with a loud crash on the cushion beneath.

The wicked man had expected this result of his movement; it was for him the signal of his triumph and the death of Moumouth. However, when he heard the bust roll heavily on the floor, he was seized by a panic, and, with trembling steps, regained his chamber. Mother Michel awoke with a start; she was in complete darkness, and unable to procure a light, for German chemical matches were not yet invented. Surprise and fright had taken away her faculties for an instant, then she cried, "Stop thief!" with all the strength of her lungs. Very soon the whole house was roused, and all the servants came running in to learn what was the matter.

Lustucru appeared last, with a cotton night-cap on his head, and, for the rest, very simply clad.

"What has happened?" he demanded.

"I see now," answered Mother Michel; "it is the bust of Louis XIV. that has fallen down."

"Bah!" said Father Lustucru, playing astonishment. "But, in that case, your cat must have received it on his head."

As he said these words, Moumouth came out from under the bed and threw himself before Mother Michel, as if to implore her aid and protection. Lustucru stood amazed.

Everybody knows how light is the slumber of cats. Moumouth, who had the habit of sleeping with only one eye, had risen quickly on hearing a rustling behind the round window. Like nearly all animals, he was curious, and sought to understand anything that astonished him; so he camped himself in the middle of the chamber, the better to observe with what intention the wolf-head advanced at that unseasonable hour by so unusual a route. Startled by the fall of the bust, he had fled for refuge to the bottom of the alcove.

They gave Mother Michel, to revive her, a glass of sugar and water, flavored with orange-flower; they picked up the great king, who had smashed his nose and chin, and lost half of his beautiful peruke; then everybody went to bed once more.

"Saved again!" said Father Lustucru to himself. "He always escapes me! I shall not be able, then, to send him to his fathers before the return of the Countess! Mother Michel will get her pension of fifteen hundred livres, and I shall remain a nobody, the same as before. That rascally cat distrusts me; everything I undertake alone against him fails.... Decidedly, I must get somebody to help me!"

ather Lustucru searched for an accomplice. He at first thought of finding one among the domestics of the household; but he reflected that they all were devoted to Mother Michel, and were capable of betraying him, and causing him to be shamefully turned out of the mansion, in which he held so honorable and lucrative a post. However, he had great desire for an accomplice. In what class, of what age and sex, and on what terms should he select one?

Occupied with these thoughts, Lustucru went out one morning at about half-past six, to take a walk on the quay. As he crossed the threshold, he noticed on the other side of the street a large woman, dry and angular, clothed in cheap, flashy colors. This woman had sunken eyes, a copper-colored complexion, the nose of a bird of prey, and a face as wrinkled as an old apple. She was talking with a boy of thirteen or fourteen, covered with rags, but possessing a sharp, intelligent countenance.

Father Lustucru thought he recognized the old woman, but without recalling where he had seen her. If he had been less occupied he would have searched longer into his memory; but the idea of making away with the cat absorbed him entirely, and he continued his route with a thoughtful air, his head bent forward, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, as if the accomplice he wanted might possibly spring up out of the earth.

Thus he wandered for some time; the breeze of the morning failed to cool his blood, heated with evil passions. Neither the spectacle of the pure skies, nor the songs of the birds, who enjoyed themselves on the border of the river, awoke in him those calm and sweet emotions with which they inspire honest people.

At the moment when he returned, the old woman was no longer to be seen; but the boy remained in the same place, seated upon a stone post, with his nose in the air, regarding the mansion of Madame de la Grenouillère very attentively. Lustucru approached him and addressed him in these terms:—

"What are you doing there, youngster?"

"I? Nothing. I am looking at that mansion."

"I believe that without difficulty; but why do you look at it?"

"Because I find it handsome, and would like to live in it; one ought to be happy there."

"Yes, indeed," answered the steward, with emphasis; "they pass the days there happily enough. Who is that woman with whom you were speaking a while since?"

"It was Madame Bradamor."

"Madame Bradamor, the famous fortune-teller, who lives below, at the other end of the street?"

"The same."

"You know her?"

"A little; I sometimes do errands for her."

"Ah, ah!... And what did the old wizard say to you?"

"She said that if I could enter that house as a domestic, I should have a very agreeable existence."

"Madame de la Grenouillère is absent, my little friend, and, besides, her house is full."

"That is a pity," said the boy, drawing a deep sigh.

Father Lustucru made several steps as if to re-enter, rested his hand upon the knocker of the door, then turned abruptly and walked up to the boy.

"What is your name?"

"Nicholas Langlumé, the same as my father’s; but I am more generally known under the nickname of Faribole."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing; my father works on the quay, and I,—I live from day to day, gaining my bread as I can. I run errands, I sell May-bugs and black-birds and sparrows, I pick up nails in the gutters and sell them, I open the doors of carriages, I fish for logs in the Seine, I sing verses in the streets, I light lamps, and sometimes I play in the pantomimes at the theatre of Nicolet. These trades, sir, are not worth much; and I have all I can do to get something to eat every day."

"You interest me," replied Father Lustucru, "and I’ve a wish to help you on in the world. Tell me, Faribole, have you a taste for cooking?"

"Rather! I love the tid-bits, but my means do not allow me"—

"I did not ask you if you were fond of eating, stupid! I asked you if you had the taste, the inclination, to do cooking."

"I don’t know; I never tried."

"Well, then, Faribole, I will give you lessons. Come, follow me; I will clothe you and take care of you at my own expense, in awaiting the arrival of Madame de la Grenouillère. She is a good lady, and will doubtless retain you; but if she does not, your education will be commenced, and you’ll be able to place yourself elsewhere."

"You are, then, in the service of the Countess?"

"I am her steward," said Father Lustucru, with dignity.

The eyes of Faribole sparkled with pleasure; he bowed respectfully before the steward, and said with warmth:—

"Ah, how much I owe to you!"

Faribole was installed that same day, and cordially received by the other servants of the household. He was a good-natured boy, serviceable and quick, and, although a little awkward in his new clothes and at his new duties, he showed plenty of willingness.

"Faribole," said the steward to his protégé, several days afterward, "It is well to let you know the ways of the house. There is an individual here, all-powerful, who reigns as sovereign master, whose will is obeyed, whose whims are anticipated,—and that individual is a cat. If you wish to make your way in the world, it is necessary to seek to please Moumouth; if the cat Moumouth accords you his affections, you will also have that of Madame de la Grenouillère and her companion, Mother Michel."

"The cat shall be my friend, and I will be the friend of the cat," responded the young fellow, confidently.

In effect, he showered on Moumouth so many kindnesses and caresses and attentions, that the cat, although naturally suspicious, conceived a lively attachment for Faribole, followed him with pleasure, teased him, and invited him to frolics. Mother Michel was nearly jealous of the small boy; Father Lustucru, who had ideas of his own, laughed in his sleeve, and rubbed his hands together.

The steward, one evening, ordered Faribole to come to his chamber, and after closing the door carefully and assuring himself that no one was listening, he said:—

"Moumouth is your friend; you have followed my recommendations exactly."

"I shall remain in the house—is it not so?"

"Probably. You find yourself very well here?"

"Without doubt! I, who lived on black bread, I make four good meals a day. I had a wretched blouse, full of holes, and patched trousers, and now I am dressed like a prince. I suffer no more from cold, and, instead of lying out under the stars, I go to sleep every night in a comfortable bed, where I dream of gingerbread and fruit-cake."

Father Lustucru rested his chin on the palm of his right hand, and fixing his piercing eyes upon Faribole, said to him:—

"Suppose you were obliged to take up again with the vagabond life from which I lifted you?"

"I believe I should die with shame!"

"Then you would do anything to preserve your present position?"

"I would do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything, absolutely."

"Very well. Now, this is what I demand of you imperatively: Moumouth follows you willingly; to-morrow, just at night-fall, you will lead him into the garden; you will put him into a sack which I have made expressly, and tightly draw the cords of the sack"—

"And then?" said Faribole, who opened his eyes wide.

"We will each arm us with a stick, and we will beat upon the sack until he is dead."

"Never! never!" cried the poor boy, whose hair stood up with fright.

"Then pack your bundle quickly, and be off; I turn you away!"

"You turn me away!" repeated young Faribole, lifting up his hands to the sky.

"I do not give you five minutes to be gone; you depend upon me here, solely on me."

The unhappy Faribole began to weep, and the steward added, in a savage voice,—

"Come, now! no faces! Take off your clothes, and put on your rags, and disappear!"

Having pronounced these words, Lustucru took from a closet the miserable vestments which Faribole had worn the day of his installation. The steward seized them disdainfully between his thumb and forefinger, and threw them upon the floor.

The boy looked with an air of despair at the habits he had on, compared them with those which he was obliged to resume, and the comparison was so little to the advantage of the latter, that he broke into loud sobs.

However, he was decided not to purchase handsome clothes at the price of a perfidy and a horrible murder. He resolutely threw off his vest, then his neckerchief; but at the idea of giving up his new shoes, of walking barefoot, as formerly, over roads paved with gravel and broken glass, the luckless Faribole had a moment of hesitation.

Father Lustucru, who observed him closely, profited by this circumstance with consummate cunning.

"Foolish fellow!" said he; "you refuse happiness when it would be so easy for you to retain it. If I proposed to you the death of a man, I could understand, I could even approve of your scruples; but I propose that of a cat—a simple cat! What do you find in that so terrible? What is a cat? Nothing—less than nothing; one doesn’t attach the least value to the lives of cats. Inn-keepers give them to their customers to eat; the most celebrated surgeons massacre them in making certain experiments. Cats are thought so little of, that when a litter of six or seven are born, only one is kept; the rest are tossed into the river."

"But Moumouth is large, Moumouth is fully grown," said Faribole in a plaintive tone; "and then, you do not know, I love him."

"You love him! you dare to love him!" cried the steward with inexpressible rage. "Very well! I—I detest him, and I wish his death!"

"But what has he done to you, then?"

"What business is that to you? I desire his death, and that’s enough."

"Mercy for him!" cried Faribole, throwing himself at the feet of hard-hearted Lustucru.

"No mercy!" replied Lustucru, hissing the words through his clenched teeth. "No mercy, neither for him nor for you. Get up, depart, be off this very instant! It rains in torrents; you will be drenched, you will die of cold this night,—so much the better!"

A beating rain, mixed with hailstones, pattered against the window-panes, and the wind swept with a mournful sound through the halls of the house. Then poor Faribole thought of the cold that would seize him, of the privations which awaited him, of his few resources, of his immense appetite, and how disagreeable it was to sleep on the damp earth. His evil genius took possession of him, and whispered into his ear these words of Father Lustucru: "What is a cat?"

"Monsieur Lustucru," said he, weeping, "do not send me away, I will do all that you wish."

"To-morrow, at night-fall, you will lead Moumouth into the garden?"

"Yes, Monsieur Lustucru."

"You will put him into this sack?"

"Yes, Monsieur Lustucru."

"And you will beat it with me?"

The response to this question was long coming; Faribole turned pale, his legs bent under him; finally he bowed his head, letting his arms droop at his sides, as if he had sunk under the weight of his destiny, and murmured, in a stifled voice:—

"Yes, Monsieur Lustucru."

ustucru had fixed the following day for the cruel execution of Moumouth, for he knew that Mother Michel on that day was to carry to the express office a package destined for her sister.

All the forenoon and afternoon Faribole was plunged in the darkest despondency, and when the fatal hour sounded, he was assailed by the irresolutions of the previous day. When Mother Michel, before going out, said to him, "I leave Moumouth in your charge; you must take care of him, and make him play, so that he will not fret too much during my absence," the poor lad felt his heart fail, and his natural loyalty revolted.

"Come, we have not a minute to lose," said Father Lustucru to Faribole; "here is the sack; go look for the beast!"

Faribole once more appealed to the pity of the steward; he was eloquent, he had tears in his voice, he pronounced a most touching plea, but without being able to gain his cause. The executioner was immovable; he insisted on the death of the cat; and the boy, overpowered by this evil spirit, saw himself forced to obey.

Moumouth allowed himself to be enticed into the garden; he followed his treacherous friend with the confidence of the lamb following the butcher, and, at the very moment when he least thought of it, he found himself fastened in the sack that was to be his tomb. Lustucru, who was hiding, appeared suddenly, bearing two enormous cudgels; he handed one to his accomplice, and taking hold of the sack, cried:—"Now!—to work, and no quarter!"

Faribole heard him not; the boy was struck with stupor—his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, his face was livid, his mouth open, his arms without strength.

Father Lustucru, animated by the nearness of his vengeance, did not remark what passed in the mind of his companion. Having thrown the sack rudely on the ground, the steward lifted his cudgel, and was about to strike when the small door of the garden opened.

"How unfortunate!" he muttered; "Faribole, hide yourself in the hedge; I will come back here presently."

He approached the person who had entered, and halted, petrified with amazement, on beholding Mother Michel. He imagined at first that she had been brought back by some vague suspicion, by some presentiment; but he recovered himself, hearing her say:—

"I am obliged to postpone my walk, for I have seen Madame de la Grenouillère’s carriage coming; it turned out of its way on account of the repairs being made in the street. By reentering through the garden I was able to get here in advance. Come, Monsieur Lustucru, let us hasten to receive our good mistress."

"I am with you, madame," said the steward; then, making a speaking-trumpet of his hand, he cried to Faribole:—

"Strike all alone! strike until the cat has ceased to move!" and he rejoined Mother Michel in the court, where the domestics were drawn up in a line like a well-drilled battalion.

On stepping from the carriage Madame de la Grenouillère honored her servitors with a benevolent glance, embraced Mother Michel with touching familiarity, and demanded news of Moumouth.

"Your protégé is wonderfully well," said Mother Michel, "he grows fatter and handsomer under our very eyes; but it may be said, without injury to the truth, that his moral qualities are even beyond his physical charms."

"Poor friend, if he does not love me he will be a monster of ingratitude, for since our separation I have thought of him constantly; Heaven has taken away many beings that were dear to me, but Moumouth will be the consolation of my old age!"

As soon as the Countess had given the orders which her arrival made necessary, she prayed Mother Michel to fetch Moumouth.

"He will be charmed to see you again, madame," Mother Michel answered; "he is in the garden in the care of Faribole, a little young man whom your steward judged proper to admit to the house; the young rogue and the cat have become a pair of intimate friends."

Mother Michel went down to the garden and there found Faribole alone, seated upon a bench, and with a preoccupied air stripping the leaves from a branch of boxwood which he held in his hand.

"My friend," said the good woman, "Madame, the Countess, desires you to bring Moumouth to her."

"Moumouth!" stammered Faribole, starting at the name as if he had been stung by a wasp.

"Yes, Moumouth; I thought he was with you."

"He just quitted me; some persons passing in the street made a noise that frightened him, and he leaped into the hedge."

Mother Michel, after having spent more than half an hour in scouring the garden, returned to Madame de la Grenouillère and said: "Moumouth is absent, madame; but do not be anxious; he disappeared once before, and we found him in the garret."

"Let him be searched for! I do not wish to wait. I desire to see him this instant!"

Alas! this desire was not likely to be gratified, if any reliance could be placed upon the words exchanged in the dark between Lustucru and his accomplice.

"Well, did you do it?"

"Yes, Monsieur Lustucru, I pounded until the cat ceased to move."

"What have you done with the body?"

"I have thrown it into the Seine."

"Was he quite dead?"

"He didn’t stir."

"Anyway, the sack was securely fastened. Justice is done!"