This beast, though affectionate and fond of being caressed, was crabbed
and set in its ways. It would tolerate no whims, no departures from the
regular course of things. It understood that there was a fixed hour for
rising and for going to bed, and when it was displeased it allowed a
shade of annoyance to pass into its eyes, the sense of which its master
could not mistake.

If he returned before eleven at night, the cat was waiting for him in
the vestibule, scratching the wood of the door, miaouing, even before
Durtal was in the hall; then it rolled its languorous green-golden eyes
at him, rubbed against his trouser leg, stood up on its hind feet like
a tiny rearing horse and affectionately wagged its head at him as he
approached. If eleven o'clock had passed it did not run along in front
of him, but would only, very grudgingly, rise when he came up, and then
it would arch its back and suffer no caresses. When he came later yet,
it would not budge, and would complain and groan if he took the liberty
of stroking its head or scratching its throat.

This morning it had no patience with Durtal's laziness. It squatted on
its hunkers, and swelled up, then it approached stealthily and sat down
two steps away from its master's face, staring at him with an
atrociously false eye, signifying that the time had come for him to
abdicate and leave the warm place for a cold cat.

Amused by its manoeuvres, Durtal did not move, but returned its stare.
The cat was enormous, common, and yet bizarre with its rusty coat
yellowish like old coke ashes and grey as the fuzz on a new broom, with
little white tufts like the fleece which flies up from the burnt-out
faggot. It was a genuine gutter cat, long-legged, with a wild-beast