“That depends upon your being willing to do what I tell you, my lad,” answered the steward. “You must, to-night, call Moumouth out into the garden. There you and I will put him into a large sack, and together we will beat him to death.” “Never! Never!” cried Faribole, who loved the cat very much. “I could never do such a dreadful thing as that!” For answer Lustucru went to the closet where the boy’s ragged garments, that he had worn upon first entering the house, were hanging. “Take off the clothes I gave you, and go away instantly in these rags, if you are not willing to obey me!” said Lustucru, savagely. In vain poor Faribole wept and begged for Moumouth’s life to be spared, but the wicked steward refused to listen to another word; and, at last, Faribole, growing less and less brave as he thought of his hungry days and wet nights on the pavements of Paris, promised that he would help Lustucru do this cruel deed. The next day, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, Mother Michel called Faribole to her and said: “I am going out on an errand, now, and I am going to leave Moumouth with you. Be kind to him, and the Countess will reward your kindness when she returns.” Alas! No sooner had she started than Faribole, the tears running down his face, coaxed Moumouth into the garden. There, at the end of a long alley, stood Lustucru waiting, sack in hand. He seized the cat, thrust him in the sack, and, in spite of all his struggles, tied the cord in a tight knot. He raised his club, and was about to strike when back came Mother Michel, out of breath from running so fast. “Our dear mistress is returning, Lustucru,” she cried, panting. “Come, let us go to meet her with all the rest of the household.” She turned, and was soon out of sight. “Here!” cried Lustucru, out of patience at the delay. “Here, Faribole! Take this wretched cat, beat him until he can’t stir, and then throw him into the Seine.” And he, too, ran away to welcome the Countess home again. When he returned, there was Faribole, his face all wet with tears, but no Moumouth! “Have you done as I told you?” asked the wicked man, and the boy nodded his head, too sad to speak. But here they heard the voice of Mother Michel calling Faribole. “Faribole! Faribole! Come hither! Our mistress, the dear Countess, wishes you to bring her dear cat to her immediately.” Faribole went slowly, and with his head hanging. “Oh, Mother Michel!” he cried, “while Moumouth and I were at play in the garden, he got frightened by some boys who were passing, and ran away to hide in the hedge.” The Countess was very much grieved, and Mother Michel tried to console her. “Once he was lost for several days, and he came back unharmed,” she said. But though they looked everywhere, and offered rewards, no Moumouth was to be found. At last Mother Michel decided to go to the fortune-teller around the corner, hoping that there she might hear some news of her lost pet.