There was still some bread left that night after dinner, and as was her custom, Mme. Moulin fed the scraps to the cat, the ducks, and the dog. Strangely enough, the dog leaped to the platter on the kitchen floor, rushed through the remains of the bouillon gras without hesitation, but only sniffed at and backed away from the bread. Since he had never rejected bread before, Mme. Moulin tasted again the small chunk remaining in her hand, but found nothing wrong with it, except perhaps that it seemed flatter than usual, she thought.
(…)
Cleaning up the kitchen (the next morning), Mme. Moulin was stopped short by an utterly strange and sharp cry from the cat. She looked down on the floor, as the cat screamed in agony again. Then it rolled over, writhed, twisted, shook, and ran screaming toward the wall, trying to climb it. Its hair was literally standing up on end. She ran to it, tried to pick it up, to comfort it, but it hissed and spit at her, then screamed in the most unearthly sound she had ever heard. Alone in the house, she had no one to turn to, and all her efforts to pick up the cat were hopeless. Again and again it batted itself against the wall, then rolled on the floor in convulsions. It was a hideous, frightening sight, she later said, shocking beyond belief. Unable to climb the wall now, it ran into it at blinding speed, as if it were intent on self-destruction. In tears, Mme. Moulin coaxed and pleaded with the cat to come to her, but each time was repulsed. Then with another terrifying scream, clawing wildly at the air, it dropped to the tiles, motionless. In a moment [p. 28] it pulled itself up on its forelegs, then dragged its hind legs across the floor, collapsing again next to the stove.
At this moment Mme. Moulin looked out the open kitchen door to the barnyard. One duck was lying prostrate on its side. Another was staggering, as if drunk, beside it. Three others were clacking ceaselessly, their bills stretched as if they were going to break. They were marching and strutting like penguins, flapping their wings and waddling in a most unnatural way. From the doorway Mme. Moulin watched them in awe. She had been brought up on a mas, lived all her life among domesticated animals. She had never seen anything like this, ever. The three lively ducks were now reaching a crescendo in their quacking and their strutting. Their waddling became more exaggerated, their likeness to penguins even more pronounced. She crossed over the gravel yard to the prostrate duck and lifted its head. It fell back limply. The second was by then turning slowly in circles, then it dropped also. The others continued their wild chorus. She looked anxiously out over the vineyards, but her husband and son and the workers were nowhere in sight. Terrified, she ran back into the kitchen. The cat had not moved from where it had fallen. Carefully, slowly, she picked it up. It was dead.
(or maybe 
)
