The Mouse Who Ruled a Household

The best-laid plans of small boys and their pets depend on outwitting parents – and avoiding temptation

Imade a friend of a mouse. I had never really known a mouse before, and this new comradeship taught me a sad lesson in love and loyalty. Sometimes I took shortbreads to bed to keep under my pillow and munch while I read fair y tales. This was forbidden, but I knew that Maman expected me to do it anyway, and that her only interest in the matter was in keeping her conscience and record clear. So I disregarded the injunction. The Mouse, I soon discovered, was gnawing on the shortbreads while I slept. I caught him in the act one morning. Fortunately, Maman had not yet had time to teach me to fear mice. I wished him to remain with me so that I may have him for a pet. Fervently I asked the Lord to make it so no one would see The Mouse and set a trap.

But Papa entered my room one night and saw The Mouse.

“Hein?” Papa said as a grey streak flashed across the room. “What was that?”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I said naively. “What was that which just now appeared and disappeared?” Papa demanded.

“Me, I saw nothing. You promised to fix my skates.”

My father frowned and sat down slowly on the bed. But in a moment, he suddenly arose with a bad light in his eyes. He was, I could see, no longer a good, kind man with music in his heart; he was now a fierce hunter. He had discovered the doorway to The Mouse’s home. It was a very small hole just near a corner. “Oho!” he shouted like a savage. “Is something the mat ter? I inquired.

“Aha!” Papa exclaimed. He knelt down and peeked into The Mouse’s home.

Don’t let him kill The Mouse, I demanded silently of the Lord. Fair is fair. I have learnt already twice the number of Bible verses I am supposed to learn and You have hardly noticed me at all. Papa is Papa and I love and respect him, but You know and I know The Mouse is my friend.

This was the first time I had ever given the Lord orders, and I was not so sure I had used the most politic method.

I tried to engage my father in conversation. “What do you think I learnt in school today?” I asked eagerly.

My father replied without looking up: “Very little, no doubt. And that little of more harm than good.”

I tried hard to think of something else to talk about when suddenly Papa jumped up, holding his nose, and cried: “Nom d’un nom!”

The Mouse apparent ly had scratched Papa’s long nose. I could not help but laugh. “You too would be angry if someone sticks his nose in your house,” I said.

Papa rubbed his nose and came back to the bed, a little confused. He began to repair my skating boot, and I sighed happily, thinking he had abandoned his wild-game hunt.

Perhaps he had, but The Mouse had not given up Papa. Foolish Mouse!

As soon as my father became comfortably seated on the bed, The Mouse walked right out. Not only did he walk out ; he stood up on two legs and looked my father calmly in the eye. It was as if he wished to say: “Look here, I did not mean to hurt your nose. It was an accident. The Boy and I are friends. It is not easy to find a true friend in this world. For a small boy it is difficult; for a mouse it is almost impossible. Can we not talk this over, man to man?”

Alas, my poor father, who understood so many lovely things so well, did not understand The Mouse. He saw only a wild animal and lunged for it. The Mouse, who apparently knew something of human nature, was intelligent enough to disappear.

The next day there was a trap with some cheese. I stole the cheese in the name of my friendship with The Mouse. I could not do otherwise.

The following day, Papa, seeing neither cheese nor mouse, remarked pointedly: “Aha! What a remarkable mouse it is we have here, eh? He eats the cheese and yet he does not spring the trap!”

I rolled my eyes and tried to look as much as possible like a cherub in the Sunday-school pictures.

“Such a thing is possible – for a very smart mouse.”

Papa looked me in the eye. “It is not possible,” he said firmly. “But what is most possible is that a small boy with a vacant head is removing the cheese from the trap.” “What small boy would do such a thing?” I inquired.

“You shall find him in the mirror,” said Papa.

He then forbade me to touch the cheese. It was a direct command of the first degree and had to be obeyed.

Once more I prayed for The Mouse. “Dear Lord, I have saved The Mouse once, what I can do, certainly You can do. If the worst comes to the worst, remove The Mouse from the temptation of the cheese. Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him from the evil trap.”

THE MOUSE STOOD UP ON TWO LEGS AND LOOKED MY FATHER CALMLY IN THE EYE

Nevertheless, I awaited, with terror in my heart, the end of mon ami, my proven friend.

I opened the subject later with Maman. “If you have a friend whose loyalty is proven, you stand by this friend when others wish him harm. N’est-ce pas?”

My mother was darning one of Papa’s socks. “Mais oui,” she replied.

“Aha!” I shouted triumphantly. “Then why do we have to catch The Mouse?”

My mother stood up quickly. “Mouse?” she repeated nervously. “What mouse? Where is The Mouse?”

Papa put down his newspaper. He looked at me across the room with a wise smile. I could see I had made a fatal strategic error. Maman was afraid of mice.

“The Boy,” my father said quietly, “has in his room a mouse. They are friends, these two. So The Boy claims. The Mouse has said nothing.”

“Set the trap!” cried Maman. “Set the trap!”

“The trap was set,” my father explained patiently, “but The Mouse removed the cheese without springing the trap.”

“C’est impossible!” my mother said. She turned to me. “I forbid you to remove the cheese. You understand?”

“I will not remove the cheese,” I promised sadly. “But it is only a coward who stands still while his best friend is killed with low tricks.”

“Listen to him sing!” Papa exclaimed, a little upset.

“Maman herself has said this is one of the things one does not do,” I argued.

“A mouse,” my mother countered, “is different.”

“A friend is a friend,” I said. “At least, if you wish to fight my friend you could fight fair – not with traps.”

“Ho! Name of a thousand and one names!” Papa cried. “Shall I make a tail for myself and get down on my hands and knees and bite The Mouse with my teeth?”

Papa went upstairs and set the trap with an unfairly large and unusually attractive piece of cheese.

I sighed. I could see it was no use. The Mouse could be saved now only by the good Lord.

When I awakened in the morning the cheese was still there. I jumped out of bed, knelt down, and told the Lord: “Merci bien, Monsieur!” Then I dressed and bounded joyfully down to breakfast, humming gaily. I ate my porridge in bliss. Just as I had finished, there was a scampering above us.

“Is that,” Papa asked, “perhaps The Mouse?”

I held my breath and prayed one more time. Maman said nothing. In a few moments there was scampering again. This time it seemed very close.

“Does The Mouse even know the way downstairs?” Papa asked in surprise.

I did not answer him. I busied myself putting jam on my toast. Halfway through the toast I felt as if something soft had touched my feet. I looked down. There was The Mouse, reeling, wobbling, struggling towards my feet.

When he saw my friend, my father stood up hastily. I do not know what he intended to do – perhaps protect Maman. It does not matter. In a few seconds The Mouse rolled over my feet, dead. He did not die, however before he said something to me with his eyes. My father rushed upstairs and came back excitedly, exclaiming, “Astonishing! The cheese was removed from the trap. One imagines the trap must have sprung and struck The Mouse in the jaw. This is a mouse who has died from a punch in the jaw!”

The wonder of it did not impress me. I knew The Mouse was a brave one. But I did not know about myself, for, with his eyes, The Mouse seemed to have said to me: “Look, I was your friend and you have killed me. But here is the wonder – I am still your friend. See, I come to die at your feet and to forgive you. It is easy to love those who are kind to you; it is a terrible but necessary thing to love those who betray you.”

Ah, perhaps The Mouse did not mean anything of the sort. Maybe it was my own heart speaking, learning, growing up.

“Papa,” I asked quietly, “is there a heaven for The Mouse?”

“Yes, yes,” Papa said unhappily, “there is for everyone a heaven.”

Maman, who had been white and silent through the tragedy, now spoke meekly, “After this, let us get a large cat, so that such matters will be out of our hands.”

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