he insisted upon putting that dunce-cap on the master. Was it because
he thought the master a fool, and knew that the donkey’s ears (the
dunce-cap was fashioned in that style) were a mark of imbecility?”
“Certainly, he understood it,” spoke Maud; “he is smart enough for
that.”
“Ah! ah! ah! You say that because he gave you the bouquet as the
prettiest person present.”
“Not at all; I did not think myself the prettiest, and, since you speak
of it, let me tell you that I was astonished, and wished very much he
had given the bouquet to mamma, for she was the prettiest person there.”
“You represented her,” said William, “and I believe that, leaving aunt
aside, Cadichon’s choice could not have been better.”
“And I then, am I so ugly?” asked Beatrice.
“Certainly not, but each one to his taste, and Cadichon’s taste
selected Maud,” replied William.
“Instead of discussing beauties and frights,” said Elizabeth, “we ought
to inquire of Cadichon how he could understand so well what this man
said.”
“What a pity Cadichon cannot speak! how much he could tell!” replied
Helen.
“Who knows but what he does understand?” said Elizabeth. “I myself have
read the ‘Recollections of a Doll,’ and does a doll appear to see and
understand? That doll wrote about all she heard and saw.”
“And do you really believe that?” asked Henry.
“Certainly I believe it,” replied Elizabeth.
“How could the doll write?”
“She wrote at night, with a tiny pen made of a humming bird’s feather,
and hid her ‘Recollections’ under her head.”
“Don’t believe such nonsense, my poor Elizabeth,” said Beatrice. “It
was a lady who wrote those ‘Recollections of a Doll,’ and to make the
book more amusing, she pretended to be the doll and to write as if she
were one.”
“Do you think, then, it was not a real doll that wrote them?” asked
Elizabeth.
“Certainly it was not,” replied Maud. “How do you suppose a lifeless
doll, made of wood or stuffed with bran could reflect, see, hear and
write?”
Talking thus, they reached the castle. Running immediately to their
grandmother, who had remained at home, they recounted all my doings and
how I had astonished and delighted every one.
“He is truly wonderful, this Cadichon,” said she, coming to caress
me. “I have known intelligent donkeys, far more sagacious than other
animals, but never did I see one like Cadichon! I must confess, we are
very unjust to donkeys.”
I turned towards her with a look of gratitude.
“One would really suppose he understood me,” she continued. “My poor
Cadichon, rest assured you shall never be sold whilst I live, and you
shall be as well taken care of as if you understood everything that was
going on around you.”
I sighed at thought of my old mistress’s age, for she was fifty-nine,
and I not more than nine or ten.
“My dear little masters,” thought I, “when your grandmother dies do not
sell me, I entreat you, but keep me and let me die in your service.”
As to the learned donkey’s unfortunate master; I afterwards repented
bitterly of the trick I had played upon him, and you will see the sad
consequences of my desire to display my intelligence.
XX.
THE FROG.
The wicked boy who killed my friend, Medor, had at last (by dint of
coaxing probably,) obtained pardon and permission to visit again at
your grandmother’s. I could not bear him, you may well imagine, and I
sought every opportunity of playing some ugly trick upon him, for I
lacked charity and had not yet learned to forgive.
This Alfred was a coward, but always boasting of his courage. One day,
when his father had brought him to your grandmother’s on a visit, the
other children proposed a stroll in the woods. Maud, who ran ahead
suddenly jumped aside screaming.
“What is the matter?” said William, running to her assistance.
“I was frightened at a frog that jumped on my foot.”
“Is it possible that you are afraid of frogs, Maud? For my part,” said
Alfred, “I am afraid of nothing, of no animal.”
“Why then,” retorted Maud, “did you jump so high the other day, when I
told you there was a spider on your arm?”
“Because I did not understand what you said to me.”
“Did not understand? It was very easily understood.”
“Certainly it was, if I had heard aright, but I thought you said, ‘look
at that spider down there,’ and I jumped aside only to see it better.”
“The idea!” chimed in William, “that is not so, for as you jumped, you
cried, ‘Oh, William, take it off, please!’”
“I meant to say, ‘take it off, so I can see it better.’”
“He is telling a story,” whispered Beatrice to Maud.
“So I perceive,” was Maud’s low response.
I was listening to the conversation and profited by it, as you will
see. The children were seated upon the grass, and I was near, having
followed them. Perceiving a little green frog very near Alfred’s open
pocket, my plan was quickly formed and easily executed. Approaching
noiselessly, I seized the frog by one leg, and slyly dropped it into
the little boaster’s pocket, quietly withdrawing as soon as the deed
was done, so that Alfred might not suspect me of having made him this
beautiful present.
I could not hear distinctly all the conversation, but I distinguished
this much, that Alfred continued to boast of his courage, he was
afraid of no creature, not even of lions, at which the rest uttered an
exclamation of incredulity. Just at this moment Alfred wished to blow
his nose. Running his hand into his pocket, he withdrew it with a cry
of terror, and rising precipitately, screamed aloud:
“Take it out! take it out! Oh! I beg you to take it out! I am so
afraid! Help! help!”
“What is the matter, Alfred?” said Maud, half laughing, half frightened.
“An animal! an animal! Take it out, I beg you!”
“What animal do you mean, and where is it?” said William.
“In my pocket! I felt it, I touched it! Oh! take it out, take it away!
I am afraid of it, I dare not touch it!”
“Do it yourself, you coward!” replied Henry, indignantly.
“Well, just listen,” said Elizabeth, “he is afraid of something in his
pocket, and wants us to take it out, because he dares not touch it!”
After their first fright, the children were greatly amused at Alfred’s
contortions, who knew not how to rid himself of the creature he felt
wriggling about in his pocket. His terror increased with every movement
of the frog. At last, frightened almost to distraction, and finding no
other means of escape from this creature that he felt moving and yet
dared not touch, he pulled off his jacket and threw it on the ground,
remaining in his shirt sleeves. The others burst out laughing and made
a rush for the jacket. Henry opened the hind pocket; the imprisoned
frog seeing daylight, darted through the opening, narrow as it was,
and each one saw a pretty little scared frog, that sought safety in
desperate efforts to put itself out of reach.
“The enemy has taken flight,” said Maud, laughing.
“Take care it doesn’t chase you,” said William.
“Don’t go too near, it might devour you!” said Henry.
“Nothing is so dangerous as a frog!” added Beatrice.
“If it were only a lion, Alfred would attack it!” chimed in Elizabeth,
“but a frog! All his courage could not defend him from its claws!”
“You forget its teeth!” continued Louis.
“You may pick up your jacket,” said James, catching the frog. “I hold
your enemy prisoner.”
Alfred remained motionless and mute with shame at having thus exposed
himself to so much ridicule.
“Let us dress him,” cried William, “he has not strength enough to put
on his jacket!”
“Take care,” said Henry “that a fly or a gnat is not on it, for that
would be a new danger to fear!”
Alfred tried to escape, but all the children, big and little ran
after him; William holding the jacket, the others pursuing the coward
and endeavoring to intercept his retreat. It was a very amusing race
for all but poor Alfred, who, red with shame and anger, ran first to
the right and then to the left, and everywhere encountered an enemy.
I joined the party, and galloped before and behind him, increasing
his fear by braying and attempting to seize him by the seat of his
trousers; once I caught him, but he jerked away leaving a piece of the
trousers in my mouth which increased the other children’s laughter. I
succeeded at last in catching him with a firm hold, he uttered such
a cry, that, for an instant, I feared having seized skin as well as
cloth. William and Henry were the first to reach him; he tried to
struggle against them, but I pulled him gently, at which he screamed
again, and then became as meek as a lamb, never budging any more than
a statue whilst William and Henry put his jacket on him. Seeing that
my services were no longer needed, I released him, and went my way
delighted at having succeeded in rendering him so ridiculous. He never
knew how that frog got into his pocket, and from that lucky day he
dared boast no more of his courage—before the children.
XXI.
THE PONY.
My vengeance ought to have been appeased, but it was not; I still
retained for Alfred such sentiments of hatred as instigated me to play
another trick upon him, of which I afterwards bitterly repented. We
were rid of him for nearly a month after the episode of the frog. One
day, however, his father brought him over, not much to anyone’s delight.
“What shall we do to amuse this boy?” said William to Maud.
“Propose a riding party to the woods; Henry will mount Cadichon;
Alfred, the farm mule; and you, your pony.”
“Oh! that’s a splendid idea, provided he wishes to go!”
“Oh! but he must wish it; do you just have the animals saddled, and
when they are ready help him mount.”
William went to find Alfred, who was amusing himself tormenting Louis
and James. Under the pretence of assisting them in their garden, he
replanted their flowers, pulled their vegetables, cut their strawberry
vines, and scattered confusion everywhere; when they attempted to
prevent him, he repulsed them with a kick or a thrust of the spade,
and William found them weeping over the ruins of their flowers and
vegetables.
“Why do you torment my poor little cousins?” said William, with evident
displeasure.
“I am not tormenting them; on the contrary, I am assisting them.”
“But they don’t wish your assistance.”
“They must be made to do right, even in spite of themselves.”
“It is because he is twice as big as we are that he torments us,” said
Louis; “he would not dare do so with you and Henry.”
“Not dare!” replied Alfred; “don’t say that again, young one.”
“No, you would not dare! William and Henry are much stronger than a
frog, I know,” said James.
At this, Alfred reddened, shrugged his shoulders with an air of
disdain, and, turning to William, said:
“Did you want me, dear friend? You seemed to be looking for me when you
came here.”
“Yes; I was going to propose a riding party,” said William, with an
air of indifference; “be ready in a quarter of an hour, if you wish to
go with Henry and me to the woods.”
“Certainly; I would like nothing better,” replied Alfred eagerly,
delighted at the idea of putting an end to the taunts of James and
Louis.
William and Alfred then went to the stable, and told the hostler to
saddle the pony, the farm mule and myself.
“Ah! you have a pony!” said Alfred; “I like them so much.”
“It was a present from grandma.”
“Do you know how to ride horseback?”
“Yes; I learned two years ago at riding school.”
“I would love to ride your pony.”
“I would not advise you to do it, if you have never learned to ride
horseback.”
“I never learned, but I can do it just as well as anyone else.”
“Did you ever try?”
“Many a time. Who is there that can’t ride horseback?”
“When did you? your father has no saddle horses.”
“I never rode horseback, but I have ridden mules, which is the same
thing.”
“I tell you again, my dear Alfred,” said William, restraining a smile,
“if you have never ridden horseback, I would advise you not to ride my
pony.”
“And why not?” replied Alfred a little piqued, “you might give him up
for once.”
“Oh! I don’t refuse you on that account, it is because the pony is a
little spirited, and—”
“And what?” said Alfred, in the same tone of vexation.
“Well then he might throw you off.”
“Be easy about that, do,” answered Alfred, quite irritated, “I am not
quite so awkward as you think. If you are willing to give him up to me
for once, be sure I can ride him just as good as yourself.”
“Just as you please, my dear; take the pony, I will ride the mule, and
Henry, Cadichon.”
Henry now joined them. In a few moments we were to start. Alfred
approached the pony, which capered a little and made two or three
jumps. Alfred looked at him anxiously.
“Hold him firmly,” said he, “until I am on.”
“There is no danger, master, the animal is not vicious, and you need
not be afraid,” said the hostler.
“I am not at all afraid,” replied Alfred quickly, “do I look as if I
were afraid, I, who am afraid of nothing?”
“Except frogs,” whispered Henry to William.
“What did you say, Henry? What did you whisper to William?” said Alfred.
“Oh! nothing very interesting!” replied Henry, mischievously, “I told
him I believed I saw a frog down on grass.”
Alfred bit his lip, colored deeply, but said nothing. He got on the
pony and began to pull the bridle, the pony recoiled, Alfred clung to
the saddle.
“Do not pull, master, do not pull, a horse must not be managed like a
mule,” said the hostler, laughing.
Alfred slackened the reins, I started ahead with Henry, William
following on the mule. I maliciously broke into a gallop, and the
pony tried to overtake me, but I went my fastest. William and Henry
laughed, Alfred cried out and clung to the pony’s mane. We all ran,
and I determined not to stop until Alfred was thrown off. Excited by
the laughter and cries, the pony was not long in overtaking me, but I
followed close behind him, nibbling his tail whenever he showed the
slightest inclination to slacken his speed. We galloped thus for a
quarter of an hour, Alfred clinging to the pony’s neck and ready to
fall at every step. Determined to hasten this event, I gave a stronger
nibble to the pony’s tail, he began to kick so vigorously that at
the first essay, Alfred fell upon the horse’s neck, at the second,
he passed over its head and was stretched motionless on the ground.
William and Henry, thinking him hurt, dismounted instantly, and ran to
pick him up.
“Alfred, Alfred, are you hurt?” they anxiously inquired.
“I think not, I do not know,” answered Alfred, as he arose, still
quaking from fright.
When on his feet, his limbs trembled, his teeth chattered. William and
Henry examined him, and finding neither bruise nor scratch of any sort,
looked at him with mingled pity and disgust.
“It is sad to be such a coward as that,” said William.
“I—am—not—a—coward—but—I—am—afraid,” answered Alfred, his teeth still
chattering.
“I hope you do not intend to mount my pony again,” said William, “we
will exchange animals.”
And without awaiting Alfred’s answer, he jumped lightly on the pony.
“I would rather ride Cadichon,” said Alfred, piteously.
“Just as you please,” answered Henry, “take Cadichon and I will mount
Grison, the mule.”
My first impulse was to prevent his getting on my back, but I formed
another project which finished his day’s amusement, and served better
to express my aversion and wickedness. So I let him mount quietly and I
followed far behind the pony. If Alfred had dared beat me to increase
my speed, I would have thrown him, but knowing my young master’s
fondness for me, he never interfered with my gait, which was regulated
entirely by my own pleasure. I took especial pains in going through
the woods, to brush him up against all the bushes, particularly such
as holly and others of that thorny nature, so that his face was well
scratched. He complained of this to Henry, who answered coldly:
“Cadichon does not treat people badly that he likes; probably you are
not in his good graces.”
We soon took the road homeward, for Henry and William got tired of
listening to Alfred’s whimpering as each new branch switched across his
face. He was scratched ridiculously; I had every reason to believe,
however, that he was less amused than his companions. My frightful
project was going to finish the day’s entertainment.
In returning through the farm, we had to pass a hole or rather a ditch,
into which emptied the pipe carrying off all the stale, greasy kitchen
water. It was a receptacle for refuse of every sort, which rotting in
the stagnant water, formed a black and stinking mud. I let William and
Henry go ahead; reaching the ditch, I made a bound towards the edge and
with one kick, landed Alfred just where I had desired. I then stood
quietly enjoying the spectacle of his struggles in this black, filthy
pool that almost blinded and strangled him.
He attempted to scream for help, but the water got into his mouth, it
even reached his ears, and try as he would, he found it impossible to
extricate himself. “Medor,” thought I, “Medor, you are revenged!” I did
not reflect on the harm I might do this poor boy, who had killed Medor
by accident and not from malice, nor did I suspect for an instant that
I was far worse than he. At last, William and Henry who had dismounted,
seeing nothing of me nor Alfred, wondered at our delay and retraced
their steps, to find me standing on the edge of the ditch, complacently
regarding my struggling enemy. They approached, and uttered a cry
of horror at sight of Alfred, for he was in imminent risk of being
strangled by the mud. The farm men were called to the spot immediately.
They held out a pole to the unfortunate boy, who, clinging to the end,
was thus rescued from his peril. When landed, every one wished him
to keep at a distance, for the mud was dripping from him and smelt
intolerably.
“We must go tell his father,” said William.
“And then papa and my uncles,” added Henry, “so they may tell us some
way of cleansing him.”
“Come, Alfred, follow us, but please don’t come too near, for that mud
does smell horribly.”
Alfred, covered with confusion, black with mud, scarcely able to see
his way, followed them at a distance, and was the object of much
surprise and many ejaculations from all he met. I formed the vanguard,
capering, running and braying with all my strength. William and Henry
seemed much displeased at my gayety, and tried their best to silence
me, but their screams were of no avail, and in fact, only added to the
racket. This unusual noise attracted the attention of all the house;
every one recognizing my voice, and knowing that I brayed thus only
on grand occasions, ran to the windows so that when we came in sight
of the castle, numberless countenances full of curiosity peered at us
through the casements. Our appearance was the signal for a general
exclamation, followed by a simultaneous rush for the door, and in a
few moments everybody, big and little, young and old, had descended
and formed a circle around us, with Alfred for the centre, every one
inquiring what was the matter and trying to keep out of his way. Your
grandmother was the first to say:
“Some one must wash this poor boy, and see if he is hurt.”
“But how to wash him is the question,” said William’s papa. “He must
take a bath.”
“I will undertake the washing,” said Alfred’s father. “Follow me,
Alfred; I see by your walk that you are not hurt. Let us go to the
pond, where you can plunge right in; then, when rid of some of that
mud, you may use the soap and finish your bath. The water is not cold
at this season. William will lend you linen and other clothing.”
Saying this, he went towards the brook, followed by Alfred, who was
afraid to do otherwise, as he stood considerably in awe of his father.
I ran to assist at the operation, which was long and hard, for the
nasty, greasy mud stuck to his skin and hair. The servants hastened to
bring him towels, soap, clothing and shoes. The papas helped scrub him,
and at the end of half an hour he emerged from his bath nearly clean,
but shivering, and so abashed that he did not wish to be seen, and
begged his father to take him home immediately.
Meanwhile, every one inquired how this accident had happened. William
and Henry mentioned the two falls.
“I believe,” said William, “that Cadichon was the cause of both. He
bit my pony’s tail, which he never does when one of us is on the pony;
this forced the pony into a gallop; he kicked, and sent Alfred over
his head. I did not see the second fall, but, judging from Cadichon’s
triumphant air, his joyful braying, and his present complacent
demeanor, it is very easy to discover that the deed was intentional—he
detests Alfred.”
“How do you know he detests him?” asked Beatrice.
“He shows it in a thousand ways,” said William. “You remember the day
Alfred had a frog in his pocket, how Cadichon chased him, caught him by
the seat of his trousers, and held him whilst we put on his jacket? I
observed Cadichon’s expression, and perceived that he cast upon Alfred
such malicious glances as he bestows only on those he hates. He never
looks at us in that way. His eyes sparkled like coals; indeed, his look
was really ugly.”
“Cadichon,” added he, turning towards me, “isn’t it so? Haven’t I
guessed exactly right; you detest Alfred, and treated him badly on
purpose?”
My answer was to bray and then lick his hand.
“Do you know,” said Maud, “that Cadichon is really an extraordinary
creature? I am sure he hears and understands us.”
I gave her a grateful glance, and, going up to her side, laid my head
on her shoulder.
“What a pity, my Cadichon,” said Maud, “that you get worse and worse,
and oblige us to love you less and less! And what a pity it is, also,
that you cannot write! You have seen so much that would be interesting
to relate,” she added, passing her hand over my head and neck. “If you
could only write the story of your adventures, I am sure they would be
very amusing!”
“My poor Maud,” said Henry, “what nonsense you are saying, wishing that
Cadichon who is a donkey, could write an account of his life.”
“A donkey like Cadichon is only one in part.”
“Bah! they are all alike and do what you will, they are never anything
but donkeys.”
“All donkeys are not alike.”
“But this does not prevent people when they wish to describe a man as
stupid, ignorant, and headstrong, from saying: ‘As stupid as a donkey,
as ignorant as a donkey, as headstrong as a donkey’ and if you were to
say to me, ‘Henry you are a donkey,’ I would get angry and certainly
take it as an insult.”
“You are right, and yet I feel and see, first that Cadichon
understands a great deal, that he loves us, and that he has wonderful
intelligence—moreover, that donkeys are donkeys when treated like
donkeys, that is, with harshness and even cruelty, by masters whom they
cannot love or serve faithfully.”
“According to your doctrine, then, it is really Cadichon’s intelligence
that instigated him to betray the robbers, and that prompts him to so
many extraordinary deeds.”
“Certainly, how else would you account for his revealing the place of
their concealment, except that he wished to do so?”
“I would say, that seeing his comrades enter the cave, he wished to
rejoin them.”
“And the tricks of the learned donkey?”
“I would account for that day’s doings on the score of jealousy and
malice.”
“And the race in which he came off victor?”
“A donkey’s pride.”
“And the fire when he saved Pauline?”
“It was instinct.”
“Hush, Henry, you provoke me.”
“I am very fond of Cadichon, I assure you; but I consider him just what
he is in reality, a donkey; and you, you make him a genius. I must
say, that if he is endowed with all the mind and intelligence that you
believe he possesses, he is wicked and detestable.”
“How so?”
“By turning into ridicule the poor learned donkey and his master,
thus preventing them from making the money necessary for their
subsistence—again, in playing so many ugly tricks on Alfred, who never
did him any harm, and, finally, in making himself so detestable to the
other animals, biting, kicking and maltreating them generally.”
“That is true, indeed, you are right, Henry. I would rather believe for
the sake of Cadichon’s honor, that he is ignorant of what he does and
the consequences of his deeds.”
And Maud ran off with Henry, leaving me alone, and quite displeased at
what I had just heard. I felt indeed that Henry’s condemnation of my
behavior was just, but I was unwilling to acknowledge it, and still
more unwilling to change my conduct, by shaking off the yoke of pride,
ill temper and revenge, by which I had so long been governed.
XXII.
THE PUNISHMENT.