The Story of a Cat Part 7

"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 p.r.o.nounced these words, l.u.s.tucru 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Faribole's Old Clothes.]

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 gla.s.s, the luckless Faribole had a moment of hesitation.

Father l.u.s.tucru, who observed him closely, profited by this circ.u.mstance 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 ma.s.sacre 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 l.u.s.tucru.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Get up! Depart!"]

"No mercy!" replied l.u.s.tucru, 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 appet.i.te, 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 l.u.s.tucru: "What is a cat?"

"Monsieur l.u.s.tucru," 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 l.u.s.tucru."

"You will put him into this sack?"

"Yes, Monsieur l.u.s.tucru."

"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 l.u.s.tucru."

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH FATHER l.u.s.tUCRU IS ON THE POINT OF ACCOMPLIs.h.i.+NG HIS PURPOSE, AND MOTHER MICHEL'S CAT IS IN AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT.

l.u.s.tucru 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 a.s.sailed 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 l.u.s.tucru 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 p.r.o.nounced 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. l.u.s.tucru, 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 l.u.s.tucru, animated by the nearness of his vengeance, did not remark what pa.s.sed 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Steward lifted his Cudgel.]

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 Grenouillere'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 l.u.s.tucru, 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:--

[Ill.u.s.tration: Making a Speaking-trumpet of his Hand.]