IT seems that the destiny which controls the lives of men, takes a diabolical pleasure in preceding the worst catastrophe by the serenest of joys. Thus is it often that we are warned of the tempest by the calm.

Thus in the beginning of the misfortunes of ThÉophraste, Marceline and Adolphe, there was something which was not of very great importance in itself-the strange behavior of a small black cat.

I have not yet described in detail the apartment occupied by the household of Longuet in the Rue Geronde. It is now necessary to do so. It was a small apartment, rented for twelve hundred francs a year, on passing through the folding-doors of which one entered a vestibule of restricted dimensions, all the furniture of which consisted of a polished oak trunk, which seemed to fill the whole vestibule. Besides the front door, four doors opened into the vestibule: the kitchen door, the dining-room door, to the left; the parlor door, and that of the bedroom, on the right. The parlor and bedroom windows looked out into the street, and those of the kitchen and dining-room looked out into the court. The window of the little room in which M. Longuet had made his office, opened on the street also. This room was between the bedroom and the dining-room, and could be entered by doors from either of these. As to the furniture in this apartment, that in the office is all that need be described. There was a small desk against the wall.

These great misfortunes of ThÉophraste, Marceline and Adolphe centered around something which was not of great importance in itself: it was only an ornament in the form of a small black cat, which was placed over the patent lock with which the small desk was fastened, thus hiding it.

This little black cat was nothing more than an ingenious silken cushion, which served the double purpose of pin-cushion and pen-wiper. There was also a tea-table in this room.

Upon returning from their trip, Adolphe accompanied ThÉophraste up the stairway, and as it was late he announced his intention of leaving at once. He ordered his friend to go to bed so that he might get up early the next day to make further researches. He shook his hand with a show of sincerity, and as he went downstairs, looked up to ThÉophraste, who was holding the lamp for him, and murmured, “Good-bye, till to-morrow.”

ThÉophraste closed the door of the apartment with the greatest care, and as he made the second turn to the latch, he said to Marceline, “Now that we are very often in the country, we ought to have extra bolts for safety.”

ThÉophraste and Marceline searched the apartment before going to bed. They went into the kitchen, into the dining-room, into the parlor, and into the office. Nothing unusual had happened during their absence. Everything was in its usual place.

Having gone to bed, ThÉophraste lay awake for some time. He amused himself by thinking of Cartouche and all the wonderful things he had done. While he tried to fall asleep, his mind kept continually going back to the same theme. Suddenly he opened his frightened eyes in the darkness, and laid his hand on his wife’s arm, waking her. Then, in a voice so low that he alone knew he had spoken, he said, “Do you hear anything?” Marceline woke with a start, and they both strained their ears. They heard something in the apartment. It was a peculiar sound like the purring of a cat. It seemed as if it came from the office, and they listened intently for some minutes, too frightened to move.

ThÉophraste, as we have said before, was not a brave man, and he would have given a hundred thousand francs for it to have been daylight. Marceline whispered in his ear, “Go and see what is the matter. You must, ThÉophraste. Take the revolver from the table drawer.” ThÉophraste just had the strength to answer, “You know very well it is not loaded.”

They listened again, but the noise had stopped. Marceline hoped that they had been mistaken. ThÉophraste, quaking with fear, then got out of the bed, and taking the revolver, softly opened the door which led into the office.

The night was clear, and the moon shone across the large blue table-cloth which was spread on the table. ThÉophraste recoiled. He pushed the door to by pressing his back against it, as if he would hinder whatever he had seen from entering the room. “What is it?” demanded Marceline, raising herself from the pillows. ThÉophraste, with chattering teeth, answered, “It does not purr any more, but it has moved. It is on the tea-table.”

“What is on the tea-table?”

“The cat!”

“Are you sure it was in its right place last night?” asked Marceline.

“Perfectly sure. I put my scarf-pin on it when I was going to bed.”

“Oh, you only think that you did it,” said Marceline. “Shall I light the lamp?”

“No, no. We can escape in the darkness. If I open the door on the landing we can call the conciergerie.”

“You are not afraid, then?” asked Marceline, who, now that she heard it was the cat, was recovering her senses. “It was an illusion that we had. You must have changed his place last night.”

“After all it is very possible,” said ThÉophraste. He only wanted to get back to bed.

“Put it in its place,” insisted Marceline. ThÉophraste decided to do so. He went into the office, and with a hasty, trembling hand took the cat from the tea-table and put it on the desk, and soon found himself back in bed. By this time they had recovered their composure.

They even smiled in the darkness to think that they had been afraid. However, a quarter of an hour elapsed, and they were frightened to hear again the rattle of the ornament. “Oh, it is not possible,” cried Marceline; “we are the victims of hallucination. There is nothing to astonish us after what has happened at the Conciergerie.”

It was Marceline who got up this time. She pulled open the door of the office, and came back at once towards ThÉophraste, and said with a voice so weak that it seemed far away, “You did not, then, put the cat back on the desk?”

“But I did,” growled ThÉophraste.

“Well, but it is back on the tea-table.”

“My God!” said the man hiding his head under the coverings.

Marceline was convinced that, in the disordered condition of his mind, he had left the cat on the tea-table. She took it, holding her breath, and put it on the table. The cat rattled audibly again as she did it, but neither Marceline nor ThÉophraste saw anything in this. Marceline went back to bed again.

Another quarter of an hour passed, at the end of which they again heard the same noise. Then an incredible thing happened. ThÉophraste turned like a tiger and cried out, “What is it? It is only too true, something unusual is happening.”