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Updated: June 27, 2025
"It is five o'clock, M. Lustucru, and you forget my cat." "I forget him!" cried the steward, clasping his hands as if very much hurt by the suspicion, "I was just thinking of him.... I am going to prepare for him such a delicious hash that he will never want another!" "Thanks, Monsieur Lustucru! I shall inform Madame, the Countess, of your care for her favorite.
Alas! this desire was not likely to be gratified, if any reliance could be placed upon the words exchanged in the dark between Lustucru and his accomplice. "Well, did you do it?" "Yes, Monsieur Lustucru, I pounded until the cat ceased to move." "What have you done with the body?" "I have thrown it into the Seine." "Was he quite dead?" "He didn't stir." "Anyway, the sack was securely fastened.
The crime of Lustucru was then evident; but other proofs were not long in rising against him. The adventure of Groquemouche and Guignolet was talked about among the boatmen; Faribole heard the story from one of them, and discovered a person who had seen Lustucru throw Moumouth from the bridge of Notre Dame.
One night Lustucru stole noiselessly into the chamber of Mother Michel, opened the round window, which he was careful to leave ajar, and retired silently.
Madame de la Grenouillère inhabited a magnificent mansion situated on the corner of the streets Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre and Orties-Saint-Louis; there she led a very retired life, on almost intimate terms with her two principal domestics, Madame Michel, her maid and companion, and M. Lustucru, the steward.
"No, no," replied the malicious man; "let us continue to hunt, we shall finish by finding. We haven't looked there behind those fagots." The credulous Mother Michel advanced in the direction indicated, and to the great stupefaction of Lustucru the cat, which he believed drowned, appeared in full health and strength, and fixed its gaze upon him indignantly.
Lustucru remained, and, recovering from his first stupor, resolved to boldly deny everything, if Faribole should dare to accuse him. Introduced into the parlor, Faribole did not wait to be interrogated. "Madame the Countess," said he, "the presence of your cat tells me why you have called me; but I am less guilty than I appear; permit me to explain."
It was near the close of the day that Lustucru pronounced these words, which a popular song has happily preserved for us: "Oh, Mother Michel, Your cat is not lost; He is up in the garret A-hunting the rats, With his little straw gun And his sabre of wood!" The words were full of a bitter raillery, which Father Lustucru was unable to disguise.
She could not control her grief, for the loss of Moumouth; she called him continually in a plaintive voice, and if we may credit the popular song the neighbors heard her cry at the window: "Who will bring him back to me?" The next morning, at the rising of the smiling sun, the perfidious Lustucru presented himself before Mother Michel in order to say to her:
As he said these words, Moumouth came out from under the bed and threw himself before Mother Michel, as if to implore her aid and protection. Lustucru stood amazed. Everybody knows how light is the slumber of cats. Moumouth, who had the habit of sleeping with only one eye, had risen quickly on hearing a rustling behind the round window.
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