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Updated: June 22, 2025
Oh, it is something very abominable, and I do not know how to explain it to you. Nevertheless, in order to know if you have sinned against this commandment, I must make myself understood. Has not your Confessor already spoken to you about it? No, Monseigneur. Ah, do not tell a falsehood. It is a mortal sin to tell a falsehood in confession. Who is your Confessor? He is Monsieur Matou.
With which withering satire Cigarette left Pere Matou in the conviction that he must be already dead and among the angels if the people began to talk of champagne to him; and flitting down between the long rows of beds with the old disabled veterans who tended them, skimmed her way, like a bird as she was, into another great chamber, filled, like the first, with suffering in all stages and at all years, from the boy-conscript, tossing in African fever, to the white-haired campaigner of a hundred wounds.
"Paradise!" growled Pere Matou. "Ouf! Who wants that? If one had a few bidons of brandy, now " "Brandy? Oh, ha! you are to be much more of aristocrats now than that!" cried Cigarette, with an immeasurable satire curling on her rosy piquant lips. "The Silver Pheasants have taken to patronize you.
Then she laughed, and drummed the rataplan again with her brass heel. "All the same, one is not in paradise au grabat; eh, Pere Matou?" she said curtly.
I am seized with an ambition to put some fragments of these into English verse. Most of them are highly complimentary. It is true that Ronsard was one of those who could not appreciate a "matou." He sang or said: There is no man now living anywhere Who hates cats with a deeper hate than I; I hate their eyes, their heads, the way they stare, And when I see one come, I turn and fly.
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