"He is a rat--a rat!" exclaimed Henri, suddenly executing a sort of
reasonless war-dance round the kitchen--"One wants a cat to catch
him!"

"Rats are nice," declared Babette, for she remembered having once
had a tame white rat which sat on her knee and took food from her
hand,--"Monsieur Cazeau is a man; and men are not nice."

Patoux burst into a loud laugh.

"Men are not nice!" he echoed--"What dost thou know about it, thou
little droll one?"

"What I see," responded Babette severely, with an elderly air, as of
a person who has suffered by bitter experience; and, undeterred by
her parents' continued laughter she went on--

"Men are ugly. They are dirty. They say 'Come here my little girl,
and I will give you something,'--then when I go to them they try and
kiss me. And I will not kiss them, because their mouths smell bad.
They stroke my hair and pull it all the wrong way. And it hurts. And
when I don't like my hair pulled the wrong way, they tell me I will
be a great coquette. A coquette is to be like Diane de Poitiers.
Shall I be like Diane de Poitiers?"

"The saints forbid!" cried Madame Patoux,--"And talk no more
nonsense, child,--it's bed-time. Come,--say good-night to thy
father, Henri;--give them thy blessing, Jean--and let me get them
into their beds before the Archbishop leaves the house, or they will