prowling round the hay-lofts of the neighbourhood. The carrier was
promised an extra ten francs if he brought the Cat to Orange with one
of the loads which he had still to convey. On his last journey he
brought him stowed away under the driver's seat. I scarcely knew my
old Tom when we opened the moving prison in which he had been confined
since the day before. He came out looking a most alarming beast,
scratching and spitting, with bristling hair, bloodshot eyes, lips
white with foam. I thought him mad and watched him closely for a time.
I was wrong: it was merely the fright of a bewildered animal. Had
there been trouble with the carrier when he was caught? Did he have a
bad time on the journey? History is silent on both points. What I do
know is that the very nature of the Cat seemed changed: there was no
more friendly purring, no more rubbing against our legs; nothing but a
wild expression and the deepest gloom. Kind treatment could not soothe
him. For a few weeks longer, he dragged his wretched existence from
corner to corner; then, one day, I found him lying dead in the ashes
on the hearth. Grief, with the help of old age, had killed him. Would
he have gone back to Avignon, had he had the strength? I would not
venture to affirm it. But, at least, I think it very remarkable that
an animal should let itself die of home-sickness because the
infirmities of age prevent it from returning to its old haunts.

What the patriarch could not attempt, we shall see another do, over a
much shorter distance, I admit. A fresh move is resolved upon, that I
may have, at length, the peace and quiet essential to my work. This
time, I hope that it will be the last. I leave Orange for Serignan.

The family of Gingers has been renewed: the old ones have passed away,
new ones have come, including a full-grown Tom, worthy in all respects
of his ancestors. He alone will give us some difficulty; the others,