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 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 an