My friend Dr. Loriol offered to take charge of the forsaken one. The
animal was carried to him at nightfall in a closed hamper. Hardly were
we seated at the evening-meal, talking of the good fortune of our Tom-
cat, when we saw a dripping mass jump through the window. The
shapeless bundle came and rubbed itself against our legs, purring with
happiness. It was the Cat.

I learnt his story next day. On arriving at Dr. Loriol's, he was
locked up in a bedroom. The moment he saw himself a prisoner in the
unfamiliar room, he began to jump about wildly on the furniture,
against the window-panes, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece,
threatening to make short work of everything. Mme. Loriol was
frightened by the little lunatic; she hastened to open the window; and
the Cat leapt out among the passers-by. A few minutes later, he was
back at home. And it was no easy matter: he had to cross the town
almost from end to end; he had to make his way through a long
labyrinth of crowded streets, amid a thousand dangers, including first
boys and next dogs; lastly--and this perhaps was an even more serious
obstacle--he had to pass over the Sorgue, a river running through
Avignon. There were bridges at hand, many, in fact; but the animal,
taking the shortest cut, had used none of them, bravely jumping into
the water, as its streaming fur showed. I had pity on the poor Cat, so
faithful to his home. We agreed to do our utmost to take him with us.
We were spared the worry: a few days later, he was found lying stiff
and stark under a shrub in the garden. The plucky animal had fallen a
victim to some stupid act of spite. Some one had poisoned him for me.
Who? It is not likely that it was a friend!

There remained the old Cat. He was not indoors when we started; he was