and wearied, I went towards the servants who were airing themselves at
the kitchen door, and engaged in conversation.
“He is getting too wicked indeed,” said the chambermaid. “What an ugly
trick he played on poor Alfred; he might have killed or drowned him.”
“And after that he seemed so delighted,” said the valet, “he ran, he
leaped, he brayed, as if he had accomplished something great.”
“He shall be paid for it,” said the coachman, “I am going to give him a
dressing off for his supper.”
“Take care,” replied the valet, “if madam sees it—”
“And how would madam see it? Do you suppose I am going to whip him
under madam’s eyes? I shall wait until he is in the stable.”
“Then you will be apt to wait a long time, for this animal that does
only what he pleases, goes to the stable very late.”
“Well, if I get tired waiting for him, I know a way to take him there
in spite of himself and without disturbing any one.”
“How can you do that?” asked the chambermaid, “for the wicked thing
brays in such a way as to alarm the house.”
“Leave him to me! I’ll stifle his breath, so that you will hardly hear
him breathe,” was the reply, followed by a burst of laughter from the
whole party.
[Illustration]
I was enraged at their spite, and began to consider some means of
avoiding the threatened punishment. I would have jumped at them then,
and bitten every one but I dared not, for fear they would go in a body
and complain to my mistress, and I had a vague presentiment that vexed
and annoyed at my numberless tricks, she might drive me off.
[Illustration]
Whilst I was deliberating, I heard the chambermaid tell the coachman
to look at my wicked eyes. He shrugged his shoulders, arose, went
into the kitchen, and coming out again, directed his steps towards the
stable. In passing me he threw a slip knot over my head; I drew back to
break it, and he pulled in the opposite direction to make me advance;
we both pulled our best, in consequence of which the tighter the cord
strangled me; at the very first I tried to bray, but in vain, I could
scarcely breathe, and was forced at last to yield. He led me to the
stable, the door of which was obligingly opened by the other domestics.
Once in my stall, they promptly passed the halter over my head and
untied the rope that was choking me; then the coachman having first
taken the precaution to shut the door, seized the wagon whip and began
to beat me unmercifully, without the slightest remonstrance or sign
of pity from anyone present. In vain did I bray and struggle, my young
masters could not hear me, and the coachman was free to consult his own
time and taste in meting out the punishment due the many wicked deeds
of which I was accused.
He left me in a state of suffering and dejection impossible to
describe. It was the first time since my entrance into this house,
that I had ever been humiliated and beaten. Since then, however, in
reflecting upon it, I have recognized the justice of my punishment.
The next day it was quite late when the coachman let me out of the
stable. I was strongly tempted to bite him in the face, but was
prevented, as on the previous day, only by the fear of being driven off
the place.
I directed my steps towards the house. The children were all collected
around the front entrance, engaged in a most animated conversation.
“There he is now, that wicked Cadichon,” said William, seeing me
approach; “let us chase him away, he’ll bite us or play some ugly trick
on us, like he did the other day on poor Alfred.”
“What was it the doctor told papa just now?” asked Maud.
“He says that Alfred is very sick; he has a fever and is delirious,”
replied William.
“Delirious?” inquired James, “what is that?”
“A person is delirious,” answered William, “when he has such high fever
that he does not know what he says, when he does not recognize anybody,
and thinks he sees a great many things that he does not.”
“What does Alfred think he sees?” asked Louis.
“He imagines all the time that Cadichon is before him and going to dart
at him and bite or crush him under foot; the doctor is very anxious
about him; papa and my uncles have gone there now.”
“How base it was in Cadichon to throw poor Alfred into that disgusting
hole!” said Beatrice.
“Yes; it was really base, sir,” exclaimed James, turning towards me.
“Go! you are wicked! I do not love you anymore.”
“Nor I, nor I, nor I,” repeated all the children in unison. “Go away,
we want nothing more to do with you!”
I was filled with consternation; every one, even to my little James
(heretofore so tender and affectionate), repulsed me now.
I slowly directed my steps in another direction, but turned and looked
so sadly at James that his heart was touched. Running to me, he put his
hands on my head, and said in a caressing voice:
“Listen, Cadichon, we don’t love you now, but if you do better I assure
you we will love you as before.”
“No, no; never as before!” exclaimed all the rest; “he has been too
bad!”
“You see, Cadichon, what comes of being bad,” said little James,
passing his hand over my neck. “You see that no one cares for you—but,”
added he, whispering in my ear, “I still love you a little, and if you
give up your ugly tricks I will love you a great deal, just as before.”
[Illustration: He imagines that Cadichon is going to jump on him.—(Page
184.)]
“Take care, James,” said Henry, “don’t go too near him; if he should
give you a bite or a kick, he would make you suffer much.”
“There is no danger; I am very sure he’ll never bite any of us.”
“And why not?” He threw Alfred off twice.
“Oh! but Alfred, that’s another thing; he does not like Alfred.”
“And why doesn’t he like Alfred? What did Alfred ever do to him? He
might take a notion some day not to like us either.”
James made no answer, for indeed there was nothing he could say; but
he shook his head, and turning towards me, gave me such a friendly
little caress, that I was affected to tears. The abandonment of all
the others, rendered still more precious those marks of affection
from my dear little James; and for the first time a sincere thought
of repentance found its way into my heart. Poor Alfred’s illness
caused me much anxiety. In the afternoon, we heard that he was worse,
and the physician entertained fears of his life. Towards evening my
young masters themselves went to his father’s to make inquiries about
him. Their cousins impatiently awaited their return, and at the first
glimpse of them all cried out: “Well, what news? how is Alfred?”
“Very sick,” answered William, “and yet, not quite so ill as he was.”
“His poor father,” said Henry, “is greatly to be pitied; he weeps and
sighs, and begs the good God to spare him his son; he said so many
touching things, that I could not help crying myself.”
“We must all remember him in our evening prayers, we must pray with him
and for him, must we not, dear ones?” said Elizabeth.
“Certainly, with all our hearts,” responded every child at once.
“Poor Alfred! suppose he should die!” said Beatrice.
“Then,” answered Maud, “his father would lose his mind from grief, for
Alfred is his only child!”
“Where is Alfred’s mother?” said Elizabeth, “we never see her.”
“It would be very astonishing if we were to see her,” answered William,
“for she has been dead ten years.”
“And the singular part of it is, that the poor lady’s death was caused
by her falling into the water whilst on a boating party,” said Henry.
“How? was she drowned,” inquired Elizabeth.
“No,” said William, “she was rescued immediately; but it was warm
weather, and the sudden chill of the water, combined with the fright,
threw her into a fever and delirium just like Alfred’s, from which she
died in eight days.”
“Oh! my God!” exclaimed Maud, “grant it may not be thus with Alfred!”
“And for this intention we must pray fervently,” said Elizabeth,
“perhaps the good God will grant our request.”
“Where is James?” inquired Beatrice.
“He was here just now, he will return,” said Maud.
[Illustration: “How is Alfred?”—(Page 191.)]
But the poor child did not return, for he had thrown himself upon his
knees behind a chest, and with his head buried in his hands, he wept
and prayed! And it was I who had caused all this sorrow, Alfred’s
illness, his father’s anxiety and bitter grief, my little James’s
distress. This thought was a sad one for me, I began to reflect that it
would have been better to have left Medor’s death unavenged.
“What good did Alfred’s fall do to Medor?” I asked. “Medor is none
the less lost to me, and the vengeance I have taken, has only served
another purpose, that of making me feared and detested.”
I impatiently awaited the next morning’s news of Alfred, and I was
among the first to hear, for James and Louis harnessed me to the little
carriage to take them over. Immediately on our arrival, we learned from
a servant who was hastening for the doctor, that Alfred had passed
a bad night, and had just had a convulsion that greatly alarmed his
father. James and Louis waited for the doctor. He was not long in
coming, and promised to give them correct news of his patient.
In half an hour he descended the steps.
“Oh! Mister Tudoux, how is Alfred?” inquired Louis and James.
“Very sick, very sick, my children, but not as ill as I feared,” said
Mister Tudoux very slowly.
“But these convulsions,” asked Louis, “are they not dangerous?”
“No, his convulsion resulted from great irritation of the nervous
system. I gave him a pill that will compose him. He is not dangerously
ill,” said Doctor Tudoux, in the same slow, deliberate manner.
“Then, Mister Tudoux, you do not think he will die?” asked James.
“No, no, no,” was the reply in the same measured tones, “he is not
seriously ill, not at all.”
“I am so glad!” exclaimed both the boys, “thanks Mister Tudoux.
Good-bye, we must hasten home to take the good news to our cousins.”
“Wait, wait a moment. Isn’t that Cadichon you are driving?”
“Yes, this is Cadichon,” replied James.
“Then take care,” said Doctor Tudoux calmly, “he might throw you into a
ditch as he did Alfred. Tell your grandmother she ought to sell him, he
is a dangerous animal.”
And the Doctor bade them good morning. As for me, I remained in such a
state of astonishment and humiliation, that I stood motionless, never
dreaming of taking a step homeward until my little masters had thrice
said to me:
“Come, Cadichon, get up!—Go, Cadichon, get along, we are in a
hurry!—Are you going to sleep here, Cadichon? Get up, get up!”
I started at last, and ran all the way to the house, reaching which, we
found the cousins, uncles and aunts, papas and mammas assembled at the
first entrance, anxiously awaiting our return.
“He is better,” exclaimed James and Louis, and then they related their
conversation with Mister Tudoux, not forgetting his last injunction.
With lively trepidation, I awaited the grandmother’s decision. After an
instant’s reflection, she said:
“It is very certain, my dear children, that Cadichon no longer deserves
our confidence, and I do not wish the smaller of you to mount him.
The very next trick he plays on any one, I shall sell him to the
miller, who will give him employment in carrying bags of flour, but I
want to try him a little longer, before reducing him to this state of
humiliation. Perhaps he will reform, we shall be able to tell very well
at the end of a few months.”
My dejection, my humiliation, my repentance increased, but I could
not repair the evil I had wrought myself, except by dint of patience,
gentleness and time. I was deeply wounded both in my pride and my
affections.
Next day we heard still more encouraging news of Alfred. A few days
later he was convalescent, and ceased to be the subject of anxiety at
the castle.
But I could never have him out of my mind, for some one was continually
saying within my hearing:
“Beware of Cadichon! Remember Alfred!”
XXIII.
THE REFORMATION.
Since the day I had scratched Alfred’s face, brushing him up against
all the thorny bushes along the road, and ended by pitching him into
the ditch, there was a very visible change in the treatment I received
from my little masters, their parents, and in fact, from every one
about the place. The very animals behaved differently towards me; they
seemed to avoid me, moving off when I approached them, or maintaining
a rigid silence in my presence; for, as I have already remarked in
connection with my friend Medor, we other animals converse among
ourselves without speaking as men do, movements of the eyes, the ears,
the tail taking the place of words. I knew only too well what had
caused this change, and I was more irritated than grieved, until one
day, when, alone as usual, taking my ease at the foot of a pine tree, I
saw Henry and Elizabeth approach; they seated themselves and continued
their conversation.
“I believe you are right, Henry,” said Elizabeth, “and I agree with
you; I also care very little for Cadichon since he treated Alfred so
badly.”
“And not only Alfred; don’t you remember the fair of Laigle, how he
behaved to the learned donkey’s master?” replied Henry.
“Ah! ah! ah! Yes; I recollect very well, it was funny! Everybody
laughed; but for all that, we thought he displayed more wit than heart.”
“That is true; he humbled the poor donkey and his master. I have been
told that the unfortunate man was so ridiculed he had to leave without
a cent in his pocket, and his wife and children were in tears for want
of something to eat.”
“And it was all Cadichon’s fault.”
“Certainly; except for him the poor man would have made enough to live
on several weeks.”
“And, then, do you remember what was told us about the tricks he played
his former masters? He ate their vegetables, broke their eggs, soiled
their linen—I am decidedly of your opinion; I care for him no more.”
Elizabeth and Henry arose and continued their walk. I remained sad
and dejected; my first impulse was to get angry and gratify myself by
taking some slight revenge, but reflection convinced me that they were
right; I was always taking revenge, and what had it availed me? it had
rendered me unhappy.
First, I had broken the teeth and the arm of one of my mistresses, and
kicked her in the stomach. The consequence was that I would have been
beaten almost to death had I not luckily made my escape.
I had also played numberless tricks on one of my masters, who had been
good to me until I got lazy and vicious; then he treated me harshly,
and I became very unhappy.
As to the death of my friend Medor, I had never reflected that Alfred
killed him not intentionally, or from malice, but through awkwardness,
and that for his stupidity the boy was not to blame. In revenge, I
had tormented him, finishing by causing him a spell of sickness, the
consequence of his plunge into the ditch.
And besides all these, of what numberless untold tricks had I not been
guilty!
The end of which was that no one cared for me. I was alone, no one came
near to console or caress me, even the animals kept out of my way.
“What shall I do?” I sadly asked myself. “If I could speak, I would go
and tell them all that I have repented, that I beg pardon for my past
conduct, that hereafter, I promise to be good and gentle, but alas!—I
cannot make them understand, I cannot speak!”
I threw myself upon the grass and wept, not as men shed tears, but in
the depths of my heart; I wept, I bemoaned my sad lot, and for the
first time I repented sincerely.
“Ah! if I had been good,” said I “and instead of displaying my
intelligence, had tried to show kindness, gentleness, patience! if I
had only been to every one what I was to Pauline! how every one would
love me, and how happy I should now be!”
I reflected a long time, a very long time, forming first good
resolutions and plans and then bad.
At last, I decided upon a reformation so as to regain the favor of
my masters and comrades, and I began immediately to put my good
resolutions into practice.
For some time, I had had a comrade that I treated very badly, a donkey
which was bought for the little ones, as they were afraid to ride
me after I came so near drowning Alfred. The larger children were
not afraid of me, but I had lost favor and there were no longer any
disputes at their riding parties, as to who should have me, little
James being the only one who asked for me.
This comrade was the object of my especial contempt, I always kept
him behind me, kicking and biting him if he attempted to pass, until
at last, the poor animal was worried into giving me first place and
submitting to all my caprices.
That evening when the time arrived for us to go into the stable, I
found myself near the door almost at the same moment as my comrade.
He eagerly made way for me to enter first, but as he was a few steps
ahead, I stopped in turn, and made a sign for him to pass. The poor
donkey obeyed me, but trembling, suspicious of my politeness and
believing it only the prelude to some trick, for instance a kick or a
bite. He was very much astonished to find himself safe and sound in his
stall, and to see me take my place peaceably in mine.
Noticing his astonishment, I said to him:
“Brother, I have treated you very badly, but I shall do so no longer;
I have been proud, but I shall never be so again; I have despised,
humiliated, insulted you, but I do not intend to repeat it. Pardon me,
brother, and in future regard me as a companion, a friend.”
“Thanks, brother,” replied the poor donkey overjoyed. “I was unhappy,
but I will be happy now; I was sad, I will be gay; I felt myself
isolated, but now I feel loved and protected. Thanks again, brother,
love me, for I already love you.”
“Let me in turn, brother, thank you,” said I, “for I have been spiteful
and you have pardoned me, I have made advances and you have not
repulsed me, I have offered you my friendship, and you have given me
yours. Yes, it is my turn, brother, to thank you.”
And eating our supper, we thus continued to converse. It was the first
time, for hitherto I had never deigned to notice him. I found him much
better and wiser than myself, and I asked him to assist me in my new
life, which he promised to do with equal affection and modesty.
The horses, witnesses of our conversation and my unaccustomed
gentleness, glanced at me and then at one another with surprise.
Although they conversed in an undertone, I heard one say:
“This is all pretence on Cadichon’s part; he is going to play some
trick on his companion.”
“Poor donkey,” answered the second horse, “I pity him. Suppose we give
him a hint of it.”
“Oh, no indeed,” replied the first horse. “Silence! Cadichon is wicked!
he would pay us up for this if he were to hear us.”
I was deeply wounded at the bad opinion those two horses had of
me; the third said nothing, but putting his head over the stall, he
observed me attentively. I looked at him sadly and humbly. He appeared
surprised but never moved, and continued to regard me in silence.
Fatigued and worn out by sorrow and regret, I lay down upon my bed,
and as I did so, perceived it was less soft and comfortable than my
comrade’s. Instead of getting angry as formerly, I recognized the
justice of such treatment, and indulged in penitent reflections.
“I have been wicked,” said I, “and they have punished me; I have
made myself detestable, and they have made me feel it. I ought to
congratulate myself on not having been sent to the mill, where I would
be beaten, badly stabled, and my back broken with heavy loads.”
Thus bemoaning my past misdeeds, I fell asleep. As I awoke the next
morning the coachman entered the stable, assisting me to rise with a
kick, he took off my halter and set me at liberty. I remained at the
door, and to my surprise, beheld him curry and carefully rub down my
comrade, then pass my beautiful ornamented bridle over his head, put my
English saddle on his back, and lead him around to the front entrance.
Anxious, trembling with emotion, I followed, and oh! what was my
chagrin, my desolation to see James, my beloved little master, approach
my comrade, and after a little hesitation, seat himself in the saddle.
I remained motionless, overcome with grief. Dear little James perceived
my consternation, for coming up to me, he patted me on the head and
said sadly:
“Poor Cadichon! you see what you have done! I am not afraid to ride
you, but papa and mama are afraid you will pitch me off. Good-bye, poor
Cadichon; be quiet, I will always like you.”
And he rode slowly off, followed by the coachman, who cried out to him:
“Take care, Master James, do not stay too near Cadichon, he will bite
you, he will bite your donkey, you know very well how wicked he is.”
“He never was wicked with me and he never will be,” answered James.
The coachman struck the donkey, which started at a trot, and both
he and his rider were soon out of sight. I remained rooted to the
spot, overwhelmed with emotion, which was so much the more violent
in proportion to the impossibility of making anyone understand
my repentance and my good resolutions. Almost frantic with the
insupportable weight oppressing my heart, I started off in a run, not
knowing whither I went. I ran a long time, breaking through hedges,
leaping ditches, clearing fences, crossing streams, not stopping till I
came to a wall which I could neither break nor leap.
I looked around me. Where was I? The country seemed familiar, but I
could not remember when I had ever been there before. I skirted the
wall at a rapid pace. I was in a foam, having run several hours,
judging by the sun. A few steps brought me to the end of the wall; I
turned the corner, and recoiled with surprise and terror—I was not more
than two steps from Pauline’s tomb.
My anguish was more bitter than ever. “Pauline, my dear little
mistress!” I exclaimed, “you loved me because I was good; I loved you
because you were good and unhappy. After losing you, I found others,
who, good like you, treated me kindly. I was happy then, but all is
changed now; my bad disposition, the desire of displaying my ability
and satisfying my vengeance have destroyed all my happiness; no one
cares for me now, and if I were to die no one would regret me.”
I wept bitterly within myself, and for the hundredth time reproached
myself with my misconduct. One consoling thought suddenly inspired
me with consolation. “If I reform,” thought I, “and do as much good
as I have evil, perhaps my young masters will receive me again into
their confidence, my dear little James especially, who still loves
me a little. But how shall I make known to them my repentance and
reformation?”
Whilst thus reflecting on my future, I heard steps approaching the
wall, and the harsh voice of a man, saying:
“What is the use of crying, simpleton? Tears will not give you bread,
will they? Since I have nothing to give you, what do you wish me to
do here? Do you suppose I have a full stomach, I who have swallowed
nothing since yesterday morning but air and dust?”
“I am very tired, father.”
“Well, let us rest under the shade of this wall for a quarter of an
hour; I am quite willing.”
As they turned the wall and seated themselves near the tomb where I
stood, judge of my astonishment at seeing Mirliflore’s poor master,
with his wife and son! They all had a hungry, emaciated, care-worn
appearance.
The father looked at me; he seemed surprised, and, after a few minutes
hesitation:
“If I see aright,” said he, “this is the donkey, the beggarly donkey
that made me lose more than fifty francs at the Laigle fair. You wicked
animal,” he continued, addressing me, “you were the cause of my poor
Mirliflore being killed by the crowd; it was you who prevented my
gaining money enough to have lived on a month; you shall pay up for it!”
He arose and approached, but I did not stir, being keenly conscious
that I had merited this man’s indignation. He was astonished.
“It cannot be the same,” said he, “for he does not budge any more than
a stick—‘Pretty fellow,’” he continued addressing me and smoothing my
limbs. “If I had him only a month, you would not want bread my son, nor
your mother, nor would my stomach be so empty.”
My mind was made up in an instant, I resolved to follow this man for
several days, and suffer everything if necessary, to help him make some
money for his family, in reparation of the wrong I had done him.
[Illustration: The owner of Mirliflore, with his wife and son.—(Page
202.)]
When they resumed their journey, I followed them; at first, it was not
noticed, but the father having looked around several times, and seen me
always at their heels, tried to drive me back. I refused to leave them,
persistently returning to my place beside or just behind them.