ACT III.

SCENE.--Lustucru's _room. Curtains at back, parting in centre. Table in back, on which is a large plate and spoon. Music--Conspirators' chorus from "La Fille de Madame Augot." Enter to the introduction, slowly_, Lustucru _and_ Apothecary, _attired in mysterious black cowls_.

_Duo_.--_Lustucru_ and _Apothecary_.

Tune--"Conspirators' chorus." _La Fille de Madame Augot_.

When one's conspiring he must not fear To put to death his foes so drear. Then this little hash we will gently mix, And put an end to Moumouth's little tricks. Hush! ah, hush! lest Michel hear. Hark! ah, hark! Doth a step draw near? Then softly tread, then softly tread, And we will gently mix A sweet little hash, a sweet little hash, And put an end to Moumouth's little tricks. Then boldly rouse, and lead the way! Then boldly rouse, and lead the way! Oh!

_Apothecary_ (_tragically_). And now, Lustucru, mix it well.

_Lustucru_ (_mixing hash in plate gloomily_). Hand me yonder phial, and quickly too.

_Apothecary_ (_handing bottle_). 'Tis done.

_Lustucru_ (_holding up plate_). 'Tis done. Revenge is mine!

[_Both return to duo as before._]

Hush! ah, hush! a step draws near. Hush! ah, hush! lest Michel hear, _etc._, _etc._

[_At end_ Apothecary _goes out mysteriously_.]

_Lustucru_. At last, dear Moumouth, I have you. Thou wast never known to refuse so sweet a hash. Why, 'tis charming. [_Sniffing it sarcastically._] But yesterday that old fool Michel didst say thou hadst lost appetite. Blessed words! holy inspiration! from them I obtained the idea.

[Michel _heard without_: "Moumouth! Moumouth!"]

_Michel_ (_entering_). Ah! Lustucru, what shall I do? Moumouth will not eat his breakfast. All appetite is fled. He is breaking his heart for the Countess. Alas! what shall I do?

_Lustucru_. I heard your complaint last night, dear Mother Michel, and I have mixed a most appetizing hash. It is for our charming Moumouth.

_Michel_ (_gratefully_). Lustucru, you are a miracle of goodness. I have it in my heart to embrace you. I shall bless you always.

_Lustucru_. Thanks for your prayers, Michel: prayers are what I most delight in.

_Michel_. But the hash, Lustucru? Let me hasten to my pining Moumouth, my poor sufferer.

_Lustucru_ (_presenting the poisoned dish_). Here, Michel, and bless you! And bless Moumouth too, although he hates me. Thank Heaven, I have a forgiving nature.

_Michel_ (_transported_). Lustucru, you are an angel. Adieu; Moumouth awaits me. I fly, but I bless you. Lustucru, _I love you_.

[_Exit_ Michel _with hash._]

_Lustucru_ (_sneeringly_). Love me, do you? Ah! Lustucru's an angel, a miracle of goodness! But what is this? Michel returns. [_Enter_ Michel.] Ah! Michel, can you not find Moumouth?

_Michel_ (_sobbing_). What shall I do--oh, what shall I do?

_Lustucru_. What is the matter?

_Michel_. Oh dear! oh dear!

_Lustucru_. What has happened? Is--is Moumouth-- [_Eagerly._]

_Michel_. My poor Moumouth!

_Lustucru_. What! is Moumouth--dead?

_Michel_ (_unheedingly_). He just looked up at me once, and waved his dear tail, then looked once more at me, and--[_sobs_]--and--[_sobs_]

_Lustucru_ (_eagerly_). And died?

_Michel_. No, no (_sobbing_); he would not eat the hash.

_Lustucru_ (_beside himself_). Oh! hey diddle dee! get out!

_Michel_ (_still weeping_). I see you feel sad too. My Moumouth will die of starvation.

_Lustucru_ (_pacing the room angrily_). Humph!

_Michel_. And I have just received a letter from the Countess saying she will return soon, and she hopes to find Moumouth well, and that she has reserved for me a handsome reward.

_Lustucru_ (_still pacing the room_). Ho!

_Michel_. But since Moumouth refuses your hash, Father Lustucru, I think I shall taste it, to set Moumouth an example. It looks very nice.

_Lustucru_ (_alarmed_). Don't touch it, I beg of you.

_Michel_. Why not? Is there anything wrong in the hash?

_Lustucru_. No, certainly not; but what is prepared for a cat should not serve for a Christian. It is necessary to guard propriety, and not trifle with the dignity of human nature.

_Michel_. Very well; Moumouth may suit himself. But I can not believe your hash is so _very_ nice, or Moumouth would not have refused it.

_Lustucru_. Do not reflect on my hash, madame, because your Cat objects to it. Moumouth never _had_ good taste.

_Michel_. Humph! I suppose that is because he never took a fancy to _you_. _I_ think he has very good taste; he adores _me_.

_Lustucru_. Vanity! vanity!

_Michel_ (_fiercely_). Egotism! egotism!

_Lustucru_. Mother Michel, beware!

_Michel_. Father Lustucru, take heed!

_Lustucru_. B-e-w-a-r-e, woman!

_Michel_. Man, take heed!

[_They burst into duo, same as Act II. Tune_--"Dairy-maid am I." _Curtain falls on them highly irate._]