"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."