Burette decided to try extreme measures, for hunting them with shoes has no effect. So he begins to sing one of the most beautiful tunes in his repertoire called “A Montparnasse.” It must have thirty verses, all ending in an interminable “nasse ... nasse ... nasse.”
It seems that it was a triumph of the boulevards, and no true lover of songs should be ignorant of it. Very possibly.
The rats must have shared my opinion, however, for they seemed to like the great triumph of the boulevards only moderately, but they remained quiet while the song lasted.
That song had another virtue, too. It put me to sleep and Burette as well. His voice dragged more and more, and grew more feeble, when a terrible cry pierced the night.
Morin shouted in terror.
We jumped for our electric lamps.
Their dim rays brighten the darkness.
Above Morin’s head, through a hole in the mud wall which separates us from the neighboring stable, a calf—a young calf—gracious and smiling, has stuck his great red head, and has imprinted a caress on the face of our sleeping friend with his milky tongue.
“The salaud! He has bitten me,” grumbled Morin, wiping off the dribble which stuck to his face.
“Get out, animal.”