The name was singularly appropriate, for assuredly Félice was the
happiest of all four-footed creatures. Her nature was gentle; she was
obedient, long-suffering, kind. She had known what it was to toil and
to bear burdens; sometimes she had suffered from hunger and from
thirst; and before she came into the possession of Jacques she had been
beaten, for Pierre, her former owner, was a hard master. But Félice
was always a kind, faithful, and gentle creature; presumably that was
why they named her that pretty name, Félice. She may not have been
happy when Pierre owned and overworked and starved and beat her; that
does not concern us now, for herein it is to tell of that time when she
belonged to Jacques, and Jacques was a merciful man.
Jacques was a farmer; he lived a short distance from Cinqville, which,
as you are probably aware, is a town of considerable importance upon
what used to be the boundary line between France and Germany. The
country round about is devoted to agriculture. You can fancy that,
with its even roads, leafy woods, quiet lanes, velvety paddocks, tall
hedges, and bountiful fields, this country was indeed as pleasant a
home as Félice--or, for that matter, any other properly minded
horse--could hope for. Toward the southern horizon there were hills
that looked a grayish blue from a distance; upon these hills were
vineyards, and the wine that came therefrom is very famous wine, as
your uncle, if he be a club man, will very truly assure you. There was
a pretty little river that curled like a silver snake through the
fertile meadows, and lost its way among the hills, and there were many
tiny brooks that scampered across lots and got tangled up with that
pretty little river in most bewildering fashion. So, as you can
imagine, this was a fair country, and you do not wonder that, with so
merciful a master as Jacques, our friend Félice was happy.
But what perfected her happiness was the coming of her little colt, as
cunning and as blithe a creature as ever whisked a tail or galloped on
four legs. I do not know why they called him by that name, but
Petit-Poulain was what they called him, and that name seemed to please
Félice, for when farmer Jacques came thrice a day to the stile and
cried, "Petit-Poulain, petit, petit, Petit-Poulain!" the kind old
mother would look up fondly, and, with doting eyes, watch her dainty
little colt go bounding toward his calling master. And he was indeed a
lovely little fellow. The curé, the holy père François, predicted that
in due time that colt would make a great name for himself and a great
fortune for his owner. The holy père knew whereof he spake, for in his
youth he had tasted of the sweets of Parisian life, and upon one
memorable occasion had successfully placed ten francs upon the winner
of le grand prix. We can suppose that Félice thought well of the holy
père. He never came down the road that she did not thrust her nose
through the hedge and give a mild whinny of recognition, as if she fain
would say: "Pray stop a moment and see Petit-Poulain and his old
mother!"
What happy days those were for Félice and her darling colt. With what
tenderness they played together in the paddock; or, when the sky was
overcast and a storm came on, with what solicitude would the old mother
lead the way into the thatched stable, where there was snug protection
against the threatening element. There are those who say that none but
humankind is immortal,--that none but man has a soul. I do not make or
believe that claim. There is that within me which tells me that no
thing in this world and life of ours which has felt the grace of
maternity shall utterly perish. And this I say in all reverence, and
with the hope that I offend neither God nor man.
You are to know that old Félice's devotion to Petit-Poulain was human
in its tenderness. As readily, as gladly, and as surely as your dear
mother would lay down her life for you would old Félice have yielded up
her life for her innocent, blithe darling. So old Félice was happy
that pleasant time in that fair country, and Petit-Poulain waxed hale
and evermore blithe and beautiful.
Happy days, too, were those for that peaceful country and the other
dwellers therein. There was no thought of evil there; the seasons were
propitious, the vineyards thrived, the crops were bountiful; as far as
eye could see all was prosperity and contentment. But one day the holy
Father François came hurrying down the road, and it was too evident
that he brought evil tidings. Félice thought it very strange that he
paid no heed to her when, as was her wont, she thrust her nose through
the hedge and gave a mild whinny of welcome. Anon she saw that he
talked long and earnestly with her master Jacques, and presently she
saw that Jacques went into the cottage and came again therefrom with
his wife Justine and kissed her, and then went away with Père François
toward the town off yonder. Félice saw that Justine was weeping, and
with never a suspicion of impending evil, she wondered why Justine
should weep when all was so prosperous and bright and fair and happy
about her. Félice saw and wondered, and meanwhile Petit-Poulain
scampered gayly about that velvety paddock.
That night the vineyard hills, bathed in the mellow grace of moonlight,
saw a sight they had never seen before. From the east an army came
riding and marching on,--an army of strange, determined men, speaking a
language before unheard in that fair country and threatening things of
which that peaceful valley had never dreamed. You and I, of course,
know that these were the Germans advancing upon France,--a nation of
immortals eager to destroy the possessions and the human lives of
fellow-immortals! But old Félice, hearing the din away off
yonder,--the unwonted noise of cavalry and infantry advancing with
murderous intent,--she did not understand it all, she did not even
suspect the truth. You cannot wonder, for what should a soulless beast
know of the noble, the human privilege of human slaughter? Old Félice
heard that strange din, and instinct led her to coax her little colt
from the pleasant paddock into that snug and secure retreat, the
thatched stable, and there, in the early morning, they found her,
Petit-Poulain pulling eagerly at her generous dugs.
Those who came riding up were strangers in those parts; they were
ominously accoutred and they spoke words that old Félice had never
heard before. Yes, as you have already guessed, they were German
cavalry-men. A battle was impending, and they needed more horses.
"Old enough; but in lieu of a better, she will do." That was what they
said. They approached her carefully, for they suspected that she might
be vicious. Poor old Félice, she had never harmed even the flies that
pestered her. "They are going to put me at the plough," she thought.
"It is a long time since I did work of any kind,--nothing, in fact,
since Petit-Poulain was born. Poor Petit-Poulain will miss me; but I
will soon return." With these thoughts she turned her head fondly and
caressed her pretty colt.
"The colt must be tied in the stall or he will follow her." So said
the cavalrymen. They threw a rope about his neck and made him fast in
the stable. Petit-Poulain was very much surprised, and he remonstrated
vainly with his fierce little heels.
They put a halter upon old Félice. Justine, the farmer's wife, met
them in the yard, and reproached them wildly in French. They laughed
boisterously, and answered her in German. Then they rode away, leading
old Félice, who kept turning her head and whinnying pathetically, for
she was thinking of Petit-Poulain.
Of peace I know and can speak,--of peace, with its solace of love,
plenty, honor, fame, happiness, and its pathetic tragedy of poverty,
heartache, disappointment, tears, bereavement. Of war I know nothing,
and never shall know; it is not in my heart of for my hand to break
that law which God enjoined from Sinai and Christ confirmed in Galilee.
I do not know of war, nor can I tell you of that battle which men with
immortal souls fought one glorious day in a fertile country with
vineyard hills all round about. But when night fell there was
desolation everywhere and death. The Eden was a wilderness; the
winding river was choked with mangled corpses; shell and shot had mowed
down the acres of waving grain, the exuberant orchards, the gardens and
the hedgerows; black, charred ruins, gaunt and ghostlike, marked the
spots where homes had stood. The vines had been cut and torn away, and
the despoiled hills seemed to crouch down like bereaved mothers under
the pitiless gaze of the myriad eyes of heaven.
The victors went their way; a greater triumph was in store for them; a
mighty capital was to be besieged; more homes were to be
desolated,--more blood shed, more hearts broken. So the victors went
their way, their hands red and their immortal souls elated.
In the early dawn a horse came galloping homeward. It is Félice, old
Félice, riderless, splashed with mud, wild-eyed, sore with fatigue!
Félice, Félice, what horrors hast thou not seen! If thou couldst
speak, if that tongue of thine could be loosed, what would it say of
those who, forgetful of their souls, sink lower than the soulless
brutes! Better it is thou canst not speak; the anguish in thine eyes,
the despair in thy honest heart, the fear, the awful fear in thy mother
breast,--what tongue could utter them?
Adown the road she galloped,--the same road she had traversed, perhaps,
a thousand times before, yet it was so changed now she hardly knew it.
Twenty-four hours had ruthlessly levelled the noble trees, the
hedgerows, and the fields of grain. Twenty-four hours of battle had
done all this and more. In all those ghastly hours, one thought had
haunted Félice; one thought alone,--the thought of Petit-Poulain! She
pictured him tied in that far-away stall, wondering why she did not
come. He was hungry, she knew; her dugs were full of milk and they
pained her; how sweet would be her relief when her Petit-Poulain broke
his long fast. Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain,--this one
thought and this alone had old Félice throughout those hours of battle
and of horror.
Could this have been the farm-house? It was a ruin now. Shells had
torn it apart. Where was the good master Jacques; had he gone with the
curé to the defence of the town? And Justine,--where was she? Bullets
had cut away the rose-trees and the smoke-bush; the garden was no more.
The havoc, the desolation, was complete. The cote, which had
surmounted the pole around which an ivy twined, had been swept away.
The pigeons now circled here and there bewildered; wondering, perhaps,
why Justine did not come and call to them and feed them.
To this seared, scarred spot came old Félice. He that had ridden her
into battle lay with his face downward near those distant vineyard
hills. His blood had stained Félice's neck; a bullet had grazed her
flank, but that was a slight wound,--riderless, she turned and came
from the battle-field and sought her Petit-Poulain once again.
Hard by the ruins of cottage, of garden, and of cote, she came up
standing; she was steaming and breathless. She rolled her eyes wildly
around,--she looked for the stable where she had left Petit-Poulain.
She trembled as if an overwhelming apprehension of disaster suddenly
possessed her. She gave a whinny, pathetic in its tenderness. She was
calling Petit-Poulain. But there was no answer.
Petit-Poulain lay dead in the ruins of the stable. His shelter had not
escaped the fury of the battle. He could not run away, for they had
tied him fast when they carried his old mother off. So now he lay amid
that debris, his eyes half open in death and his legs stretched out
stark and stiff.
And old Félice,--her udder bursting with the maternal grace he never
again should know, and her heart breaking with the agony of sudden and
awful bereavement,--she staggered, as if blinded by despair, toward
that vestige of her love, and bent over him and caressed her
Petit-Poulain.