Where are they to-day, those three lamentable shades? Perhaps they are a little more dead; perhaps they are dead quite. After having wandered on for days and nights, perhaps they have found the hole of silence and of rest of which they were in search. All the same, it is a queer idea that the unfortunate grandmother had, in choosing me as a nurse for a young and pretty boy like Monsieur Georges. And really, when I think of the matter again, and realize that she never suspected anything, that she never saw anything, that she never understood anything, this seems to me the most astonishing feature of the matter. Ah! one can say it now; they were not very sharp, the three of them. They had an abundance of confidence. I have seen Captain Mauger again, over the hedge. Crouching before a freshly-dug bed, he was transplanting pansies and gilly-flowers. As soon as he saw me, he left his work, and came to the hedge to talk. He is no longer angry with me for the murder of his ferret. He even seems very gay. Bursting with laughter, he confides to me that this morning he has wrung the neck of the Lanlaires' white cat. Probably the cat avenges the ferret. "It is the tenth that I have gently killed for them," he cries, with ferocious joy, slapping his thigh, and then rubbing his grimy hands. "Ah! the dirty thing will scratch no more compost from my garden-frames; it will no longer ravage my seed-plots, the camel! And, if I could also wring the necks of your Lanlaire and his female! Oh! the pigs! Oh! oh! oh! that's an idea." This idea makes him twist with laughter for a moment. And suddenly, his eyes sparkling with a stealthy malice, he asks: "Why don't you put some smart-weed in their bed? The dirty creatures! Oh! I would give you a package of it for the purpose. That's an idea!" Then: "By the way, you know? Kléber? my little ferret?" "Yes. Well?" "Well, I ate him. Alas! alas!" "He was not very good, was he?" "Alas! he tasted like bad rabbit." And that was all the funeral sermon that the poor animal got. The captain tells me also that a week or two ago he caught a hedge-hog under a wood-pile. He is engaged in taming him. He calls him Bourbaki. Ah! that's an idea! An intelligent, comical, extraordinary beast that eats everything! "Yes, indeed!" he exclaims. "In the same day this confounded hedge-hog has eaten beefsteak, mutton stew, salt bacon, gruyère cheese, and preserves. He is astonishing. It is impossible to satisfy him. He is like me; he eats everything!" Just then the little domestic passes the path, with a wheelbarrow full of stones, old sardine-boxes, and a heap of _débris_, which he is carrying to the refuse-heap. "Come here!" calls the captain.