Michel. No, no. Moumouth, Moumouth, you break my heart. Come to my arms.
Lustucru (with hidden malice).
Oh, Mother Michel,
Your cat is not lost;
He's up in the garret
A-hunting the mice
With his little straw gun
And sabre of wood.
Michel (eagerly). He is in the garret? I hasten there on wings of love. Moumouth! pussy! [Exit, calling as before.]
Lustucru. What a cat-astrophe, and what fe-elin' she has! Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, miller's son, you are all excelled by this excellent woman, whose love for her Cat only exceeds her love for—five hundred francs that she shall not get. Ah! I have a heart for any—
Michel (heard without, shouting). Joy! he is found, my charming Moumouth! my Cat! my friend! Joy!
Enter with Moumouth in her arms.
Lustucru (who has stepped back, thunder-struck). Found!
Michel. Yes, yes. Give me joy, Lustucru. I could dance for joy.