“This good gentleman’s head was thoroughly turned, and he installed this fine speaking rat and his tribe in his manor, where night and day his praises and little songs in his honour were sung, not forgetting his lady, whose little paw was kissed and little tail was sniffed at by all.  Finally, the mistress, knowing that certain young rats were still fasting, determined to finish her work.  Then she kissed her lord tenderly, loading him with love, and performing those little endearing antics of which one alone was sufficient to send a beast to perdition; and said to the shrew-mouse that he wasted the precious time due to their love by travelling about, that he was always going here or there, and that she never had her proper share of him; that when she wanted his society, he was on the leads chasing the cats, and that she wished him always to be ready to her hand like a lance, and kind as a bird.  Then in her great grief she tore out a grey hair, declaring herself, weepingly, to be the most wretched little mouse in the world.  The shrew-mouse pointed out to her that she was the mistress of everything, and wished to resist, but after the lady had shed a torrent of tears he implored a truce and considered her request.  Then instantly drying her tears, and giving him her paw to kiss, she advised him to arm some soldiers, trusty and tried rats, old warriors, who would go the rounds to keep watch.  Everything was thus wisely arranged.  The shrew-mouse had the rest of the day to dance, play, and amuse himself, listen to the roundelays and ballads which the poets composed in his honour, play the lute and the mandore, make acrostics, eat, drink and be merry.  One day his mistress having just risen from her confinement, after having given birth to the sweetest little mouse-sorex or sorex-mouse, I know not what name was given to this mongrel food of love, whom you may be sure, the gentlemen in the long robe would manage to legitimise” (the constable of Montmorency, who had married his son to a legitimised bastard of the king’s, here put his hand to his sword and clutched the handle fiercely), “a grand feast was given in the granaries, to which no court festival or gala could be compared, not even that of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.  In every corner mice were making merry.  Everywhere there were dances, concerts, banquets, sarabands, music, joyous songs, and epithalamia.  The rats had broken open the pots, and uncovered the jars, lapped the gallipots, and unpacked the stores.  The mustard was strewn over the place, the hams were mangled and the corn scattered.  Everything was rolling, tumbling, and falling about the floor, and the little rats dabbled in puddles of green sauce, the mice navigated oceans of sweetmeats, and the old folks carried off the pasties.  There were mice astride salt tongues.  Field-mice were swimming in the pots, and the most cunning of them were carrying the corn into their private holes, profiting by the confusion to make ample provision