The crowd of children all ran after the cat, not to torment him now, but to bring him safely to the rich lady and gain the reward; and he was nearly as much in danger from kindness as he had been from cruelty. At last he was caught, and brought safely to the Countess. Once she had him safe in the chariot, she took a good look at him, and then said: “Poor pussy! What a very ugly little cat you really are!” But when the cat turned to look reproachfully at her, she exclaimed: “Well, he may be ugly, but he certainly has very fine eyes. Here,” she added, turning to her companion, “once more I will have a pet. Let us take this poor pussy with us, and see what a comfortable, happy life at my fireside will do for him.” So saying, she placed him in the arms of her friend, Mother Michel, and together they all three rode home. Besides her companion, there was another one of her household upon whom the Countess greatly relied, and this was her steward, whom the old lady had nicknamed Lustucru. Now Lustucru was as bad as Mother Michel was good; he hated all animals as much as the Countess and her companion loved them; and, when he saw them bringing home another cat, he was very angry, although he pretended to be pleased, and called the cat “pretty puss” more than once. And this the cat seemed to know, for he walked away from Master Lustucru whenever he saw him coming. At the end of four or five weeks you would never have known Moumouth. They had given him this name because, so an old scholar told the Countess, that Moumouth, in Hebrew, meant “saved from the sauce-pans.” And, in a second month, Moumouth had grown fat, and his fur shone as if it were satin. But something, which always does turn up, even in the happiest cat’s life, came to disturb Moumouth’s peace of mind. Madame de la Grenouillière was called to Normandy by the sickness of her sister, and, alas, Moumouth could not go with her because the sick lady did not like cats. “Come here, Mother Michel,” said the Countess; “I am going to trust my precious cat to you. Take care of him well, and if, on my return, he is alive and thriving, I will leave you a pension of three hundred dollars a year.” “But, Madame,” replied her companion, “I will take care of Moumouth because I love him as if he were my own.” “I know that,” said the old Countess, “but be very, very careful, and I will reward your zeal.” When the steward heard this promise, he was wild with wrath. “Mother Michel will have everything,” he said, “and there will be nothing left for me. Well, Moumouth, once the Countess is out of the way, we’ll see about your precious life.”