"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." [Illustration: "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. [Illustration: "Get up! Depart!"] "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." CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH FATHER LUSTUCRU IS ON THE POINT OF ACCOMPLISHING HIS PURPOSE, AND MOTHER MICHEL'S CAT IS IN AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT. Lustucru 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.