faith, since he is so determined, let him do it.”
On reaching the village, he presented himself at an inn, and asked for
a meal and lodging, frankly confessing that he had not a cent in his
pocket.
“We have beggars enough of our own, my good man,” answered the
inn-keeper, “without adding those who do not belong here, you must go
elsewhere.”
I darted to the inn-keeper’s side, and saluted him several times in
such a grotesque fashion as to make him laugh.
“This animal of yours does not appear stupid,” said the inn-keeper,
laughing. “If you will let us see some of his tricks, I will cheerfully
give you food and lodging.”
“I do not refuse, landlord, but we must have something in our stomachs
first,” answered the man, “when fasting, one cannot control his voice
properly.”
“Come in, come in, you shall be waited on; Madelon, my old woman,
dinner for three, not counting the donkey.”
Madelon brought them some good soup, which was swallowed in the
twinkling of an eye, then a nice piece of boiled meat and some cabbage,
both of which disappeared with equal rapidity, and at last, a dish of
salad and some cheese, which they devoured with less avidity, their
hunger by this time being somewhat appeased.
My dinner was a bundle of hay, but I ate very little, I had too heavy a
heart to be hungry.
The inn-keeper had collected all the village to see me perform, and
the yard was filled, when my new master led me out into the circle. He
seemed greatly embarrassed, not knowing my capacity or whether I had
received any education. At a venture he said to me:
“Salute the society.”
I made a bow to the right, to the left, before me and behind, and
everybody applauded.
“What are you going to make him do now?” said the wife in an under
tone, “he doesn’t know what you mean.”
“Perhaps he will understand. These educated donkeys are intelligent, I
am going to try him.”
“Go, Mirliflore,” (this name made me sigh) “go, kiss the prettiest lady
here.”
Looking right and left, I perceived behind nearly every one else, the
landlord’s daughter, a pretty brunette of some fifteen or sixteen
years. I directed my steps towards her, and pushing away with my head,
those who blocked the passage, I went up to her and put my nose against
her forehead. She laughed and seemed to be quite pleased.
“Say now, father Hutfer, you gave that lesson, didn’t you?” exclaimed
several in the crowd, laughing.
“No, upon my honor,” answered Hutfer, “I came only as a spectator.”
“Now, Mirliflore,” said my new master, “go find something, no matter
what, and give it to the poorest person present.”
I went towards the room in which they had just dined, seized a loaf of
bread and triumphantly deposited it in his own hands.
There was a general laugh, everybody applauded. “That’s not your
lesson, father Hutfer,” cried a friend, “this donkey really is
sensible, he has profited well by his master’s training.”
“Are you going to let him have a whole loaf of bread like that?” said
some one in the crowd.
“No, not that,” answered Hutfer, “give it to me, donkey-man, this was
not in our agreement.”
“It was not, landlord,” responded the man, “nevertheless my donkey
told the truth, when he pointed me out as the poorest here, for until
we got our dinner, my wife, my son, and myself had eaten nothing since
yesterday morning, for want of two sous to buy a bit of bread.”
“Let him have the bread, father,” said Helen Hutfer, “our meal bins are
full, and the good God will recompense us for what we give away.”
“That is just like you, Helen,” said Hutfer, “if one listened to you,
he would give away all he has.”
“We are no longer poor, father, the good God always blesses our
harvests and our house.”
“Well, then—since you wish it—let him keep his bread, I am willing.”
At these words, I went up to him, and made him a profound bow. Then
taking between my teeth a little empty pan, I presented it to each one
for his contribution, and when after going the round my pan was full,
I emptied the contents into my master’s hands, put the pan where I
had found it, and making a bow, I gravely retired amidst a storm of
applause.
My heart felt lighter. I was consoled and strengthened in my good
resolutions. My new master seemed delighted. As he was about to retire,
every one surrounded him, begging a second exhibition on the morrow,
which he eagerly promised, and then went into the room with his wife
and son to rest.
When they found themselves alone, the wife, after looking cautiously
around her, and perceiving no one but me with my head resting upon the
window, said to her husband in a low tone:
“Say husband, don’t you think it very singular our meeting this donkey
coming out of a cemetery, its following us of its own accord, and
making so much money for us? What amount have you there?”
“I have not yet counted,” he answered, “come help me, you take this
handful and I, the other.”
“I have eight francs and four sous,” said the woman, after counting.
“And I have seven fifty—that makes—how much does that make, wife?”
“How much does that make? Eight and four make thirteen, and seven make
twenty-four, and fifty make—make—somewhere about sixty.”
“How stupid you are! Sixty francs in my hands, indeed! It is an
impossibility! Come, my son, you are something of a scholar, you ought
to know that.”
“What is it, papa?”
“I have eight francs four sous on one side, and seven francs fifty on
the other.”
“Eight and four make twelve,” said the boy, with quite a decided
air; “carry one, and seven make twenty, carry two, and fifty
make—make—fifty—fifty-two, carry five.”
“Dunce! how could that make fifty, since I have eight in one hand and
seven in the other?”
“And fifty besides, papa.”
“‘And fifty besides, papa?’” said his father, mocking him. “Don’t you
see, simpleton, that the fifty are centimes? and centimes are not
francs.”
“No, papa; but it would still be fifty.”
“Fifty what? How stupid! how stupid! If I were to give you fifty
knocks, would you call them fifty francs?”
“No, papa; but they would still be fifty.”
“Here is one on the account, big animal,” said the man, giving him a
blow that resounded through the house. The boy began to cry. I was
enraged. If this poor boy was stupid, it was not his fault.
“This man,” said I, “does not merit my pity; he has now, thanks to
myself, enough to support himself and family for the next eight days.
I shall still make more at to-morrow’s exhibition, and, after that, I
return to my masters, perhaps they will receive me kindly.”
I withdrew from the window and refreshed myself with a few fresh
thistles that I saw growing on the edge of a ditch. I then went to the
stable, and, finding the best places there already occupied by the
horses, I modestly took a corner that no one wanted. There I could
reflect at my ease, for nobody knew me, nobody troubled himself about
me. Towards night, Helen Hutfer entered the stable to see if everything
had been attended to, and, perceiving me in my damp, obscure corner,
without a bed, hay or oats, she called one of the stable boys:
“Ferdinand,” said she, “make a bed for this poor donkey here on the
damp ground, give him a measure of oats and a bundle of hay, and see
that he has water.”
“Miss Helen,” replied Ferdinand, “you will ruin your papa; you are too
careful of everything. What difference does it make whether this beast
sleeps on a hard or a good bed? It is a waste of straw, that!”
“You don’t find me too careful or kind when it concerns yourself,
Ferdinand; I wish everything here to be well treated, beasts as well as
men.”
“Although,” said Ferdinand, with a mischievous air, “there are not a
few men who could easily be taken for beasts, notwithstanding they do
walk on two legs.”
“Wherefore we say: ‘Beast which eat hay,’” answered Helen, smiling.
“Oh! I would never give hay to you, miss, indeed! You have the wit—the
wit—and the mischief of a monkey!”
[Illustration: “Ah! miss, I did not say you were a monkey.”—(Page 213.)]
“Thanks for the compliment, Ferdinand! What are you then, if I am a
monkey?”
“Ah! Miss, I did not say you were a monkey; and if I expressed myself
badly, call me a donkey, a simpleton, an owl.”
“No, no, not so bad as that, Ferdinand, but only a babbler who talks
when he ought to work. Make a bed for the donkey,” added she in a
serious tone, “and feed and water him.”
She left the stable and Ferdinand complied with her orders in a
measure, grumbling all the while. He made me a bed, giving me a few
thrusts of the pitchfork as he did so, ill-naturedly threw me a bundle
of hay and a handful of oats, and put a bucket of water beside me.
Not being fastened I could easily have left the place, but in pursuance
of my good resolutions I preferred to suffer a little and give on the
morrow, my second, and last exhibition for the benefit of the man I had
wronged.
Towards evening of the next day my master led me out to a large square
crowded with curious spectators; I had been well advertised in the
morning, the village drummer having gone through the village at an
early hour crying out: “This evening at eight o’clock there will be a
grand exhibition of the learned donkey, Mirliflore; it will take place
in the square opposite the school and mayor’s office.”
I repeated all the preceding day’s tricks, and added some dances
executed with grace; I waltzed, I polkaed, and, I played on Ferdinand
the innocent trick of engaging him to waltz by braying before him, and
extending my front hoof in invitation. He refused at first, but when
every one cried out: “Yes, yes, a waltz with a donkey!” he darted into
the circle laughing, and began to cut a thousand capers that I imitated
at my best.
At last, feeling fatigued, I left Ferdinand caper alone, and went as
on the preceding day to get a pan. Not finding any, I took between my
teeth a basket without a lid, and, as before, presented it to each one
for a contribution. It was soon so full that I had to empty it in the
blouse of my reputed master. I continued my begging, and, when all had
given me, I, making a profound bow to the assembly again returned to
my master, and waited till he had counted the proceeds which amounted
to more than thirty-four francs. Thinking I had now made sufficient
reparation for the past, I felt at liberty to return home, and
consequently, after a parting salutation to my master, I wedged my way
through the crowd, and started off in a trot.
“Look there, your donkey has got away!” said Hutfer, the inn-keeper.
“How prettily he flies off,” said Ferdinand.
My pretended master turned around, looked at me anxiously, and called,
“Mirliflore, Mirliflore;” but seeing I paid no attention, he cried out
most piteously:
“Stop him, stop him, please! It is my bread, my living he carries
off; do run catch him, if you bring him back I promise you another
exhibition.”
“Tell us where you got him, and how long you have had him?” said a man
named Clonet.
[Illustration: The town crier.—(Page 213.)]
“I have had him—since I owned him,” answered my false master, somewhat
embarrassed.
“I know that,” said Clonet, “but how long have you owned him?”
The man was silent.
“It appears to me,” added Clonet, “that I recognize him, he is the
image of Cadichon, the donkey of Herpiniere castle; If I am not very
much mistaken it is Cadichon.”
I was stopped. I heard a confused murmuring of voices, I saw the
trouble menacing my new master, who suddenly dashed through the crowd,
and followed by his wife and son, darted off in the opposite direction
to that I had taken.
Some wished to pursue him, but others said it was not worth while,
since I had escaped and the man had taken nothing away with him but the
silver, which was his own, I having honestly made it for him.
“And as to Cadichon,” said they, “give yourselves no concern about him,
he can find the road home, and moreover, he will not let himself be
taken unless he wishes it.”
The crowd dispersed and all returned to their homes. I resumed my
course hoping to reach my real masters before night, but the way was
long, and being fatigued I was consequently obliged to stop about a
league from the castle. It was night, the stables would be locked, so I
decided to make my bed in a little piece of pine woods bordering on a
stream.
Scarcely had I lain down upon the moss, when I heard cautious steps and
voices speaking in a whisper. I looked, but saw nothing, the night was
too dark. I listened with all my ears and heard the conversation I am
about to relate.
XXIV.
THE ROBBERS.
“It is not late enough yet, Finot, it would be wiser to hide ourselves
in the woods a little longer.”
“But Passe Partout, we must have a little daylight to spy around; I,
especially, for I have not studied the entrances.”
“You have never studied anything, your comrades certainly made a
mistake in naming you Finot, I would have called you Pataud, instead.”
“That does not prevent my being the originator of all the good plans.”
“Good plans indeed! that depends. What are we going to do at the
castle?”
“What are we going to do? Rifle the kitchen garden, cut up the
artichokes, gather the peas, the beans, the turnips, carrots, carry off
the fruits, that is the work.”
“And what then?”
“Why do you say what then? We are going to collect everything in a
pile, get it over the wall, and take it to the market at Moulins and
sell it.”
“And how will you get into the garden, dunce?”
“Over the wall, with a ladder to be sure. Would you have me go to the
gardener and politely request the loan of his keys and tools?”
“That’s a poor joke, I only want to know if you have marked out the
place where we are to climb over the wall?”
“No, and for that reason, I prefer going at once, to reconnoitre.”
“And if they should see you, what would you say?”
“I would say—that I came to beg a glass of cider and a crust of bread.”
“That plan is not worth much. Now, here is my idea: I know the kitchen
garden; one part of the wall needs repairing; I can climb up there by
setting my feet among the stones; I shall find a ladder and pass it
over to you, as you are not very expert in climbing.”
“No; I am not as much of a cat as you.”
“But suppose some one comes to upset our plans?”
“You are a real child; if any one comes to disturb me, I shall know
what to do.”
“What would you do?”
“If a dog, I would kill him; I don’t carry my sharp knife to no
purpose.”
“But suppose it’s a man?”
“‘A man?’” answered Finot, scratching his ear. “That would be more
perplexing—A man? yet a man can be killed as well as a dog. If it were
only for something valuable but for vegetables! And, then, this castle
is full of people.”
“But tell me, what would you do?”
“My faith! I would make off as fast as possible; it would be the safest
plan.”
“You are a coward, do you know that? If you see or hear a man, you have
only to call me, and I will settle him.”
“Act according to your own taste; it would not be mine.”
“Well, now we are agreed—this is the plan: To-night we go to the
kitchen garden wall; you remain at one end as a guard, whilst I climb
over and get you a ladder, by means of which you rejoin me.”
“Yes; it is all right,” answered Finot.
Just then he looked anxiously around, listened, and said in a whisper:
“I heard something stir back there, could it be anybody?”
“Who wants to hide in the woods?” answered Passe Partout. “You are
always afraid; it may be a frog or a snake.”
They said no more. I did not stir again, and I now began to devise some
means of thwarting these robbers’ plans and causing their arrest. I
could warn no one; I could not even prevent their entering the garden.
However, after much reflection, I thought of a scheme that might end
theirs. I let them set out ahead of me, determined not to budge until
they were out of hearing.
I knew they could not walk fast, as the night was very dark. I took a
short cut, and, clearing several hedges, reached the wall long before
them. I knew the dilapidated place of which Passe Partout had spoken,
and, finding it, crouched as close as possible to the wall to prevent
their discovering me.
Here I waited at least a quarter of an hour, still no one came; at
last, I heard heavy footsteps and then a faint whispering. They
approached very cautiously, one coming towards the spot in which I was
concealed (this was Passe Partout), the other going in the opposite
direction, near the entrance (this was Finot).
I saw nothing, but I heard all. When Passe Partout reached the spot
where several stones had fallen from the wall, and thus made a
sufficient resting place for the feet, he began to ascend, assisting
himself with his hands. I did not stir; I scarcely breathed; I heard
and understood every one of his movements. When he had climbed about
as high as my head, I darted out from my hiding place, seized him by
the leg and gave him a vigorous pull. Before he had time to recollect
himself, he was on the ground, stunned by the fall, wounded by the
stones. To prevent his crying out, or calling on his comrade for help,
I gave him a hard kick on the head, which left him unconscious. I then
took my station very near him, thinking his comrade would soon come
to see what had happened. I had not waited long ere I heard Finot
advancing very cautiously. He took a few steps and stopped—he listened,
heard nothing—and went a few steps farther. In this manner, he at
length drew very near his companion, but without perceiving it, as his
gaze was fixed upon the wall and the companion lay motionless on the
ground.
[Illustration]
“Pst! pst! Have you the ladder? Must I mount now?” said he, in a low
voice. The other, not hearing him, of course there was no answer. I
saw that he was not much in the notion of climbing and might leave—it
was time to act. I rushed at him, and, pulling him to the ground by
the back of his blouse, gave him, like his companion, a hard kick
on the head, and, with the same success, he lay motionless near his
friend. Then, having nothing more to lose, I began to bray in my most
formidable voice; I ran to the gardener’s house, to the stables, to the
castle, braying with such violence that everybody was aroused. Some of
the bravest hastened out with arms and lanterns; I ran up to them, and,
by running a little ahead, led them to the two robbers stretched at
the foot of the wall.
“Two dead men! What can that mean?” said William’s father.
“They are not dead,” answered James’s father; “they breathe.”
[Illustration]
“And I just heard one groan,” said the gardener.
“Look at the blood! Such a wound on his head!” said the coachman.
“And the other is similarly wounded; it looks like the kick of a horse
or mule,” said William’s father.
“Yes,” replied James’s father; “here is the mark of the shoe on his
forehead.”
“What are the gentlemen’s orders?” asked the coachman; “what shall we
do with these men?”
“Carry them to the house,” answered William’s father; “harness up the
cab, and go for the doctor; whilst waiting for him, the rest of us will
try to restore them to consciousness.”
The gardener brought a litter, on which the wounded men were placed and
carried to a large room used as an orangery in winter. They were still
unconscious.
“I do not know these faces,” said the gardener, after examining them
attentively by the light.
“Perhaps they have some papers about them that will reveal their
identity,” said Louis’s father; “we ought to let their families know
they are here and wounded.”
The gardener rummaged in their pockets, and drew forth some papers,
which he handed James’s papa; then two sharp, pointed knives and a big
bunch of keys.
“Ah! ah! This tells what these men are,” he exclaimed, “they came to
rob and perhaps kill!”
“I begin to understand it all now,” said William’s papa; “Cadichon’s
presence and his extraordinary brayings explain matters; these men came
here to rob; Cadichon instinctively divined their intentions, attacked
them, kicked them on the head, and then began braying to arouse us.”
“That is just it, the very thing,” said James’s papa; “this brave
Cadichon can boast of having rendered us a great service; come,
Cadichon, you are restored to favor this time.”
I was happy once more, as I promenaded up and down before the
green-house, whilst Finot and Passe Partout received the necessary
attentions. They had not yet recovered consciousness, when Doctor
Tudoux, who was not long in making his appearance, reached the spot. He
examined their wounds.
“Here are two well-directed blows,” said he; “I see distinctly the
mark of a small horse-shoe, or I might say a donkey’s—and,” added he,
perceiving me, “it is probably a new piece of mischief on the part
of this animal, which seems as interested in our actions as if he
understood them.”
“Not a piece of mischief, but an act of fidelity and intelligence,”
answered William’s papa; “these men are robbers, as you see by the
knives and papers found on them.”
And he began to read:
“No. 1. Castle Herp. Many people; not easily robbed—kitchen garden
easy—vegetables and fruits, wall a little high.”
“No. 2. Presbytery. Old priest; no arms—woman servant, old and
deaf—Good chance to rob during Mass.”
“No. 3. Sourval Castle. Master absent—Wife alone on ground floor,
servant in the second story, fine silver, easily robbed. Kill if they
give an alarm.”
“No. 4. Chanday Castle. Fierce watch dogs to be poisoned—no one on the
ground floor—plate, gallery of rich curiosities and jewels to rob. Kill
if anybody comes.”
“You see,” continued he, “these men are burglars who came to rifle our
garden in default of something better. Whilst you give them surgical
attention, I will send to the town for the chief of the police.”
Drawing from his pocket a case of surgical instruments, Doctor Tudoux
took a lancet and bled the two robbers, who soon opened their eyes.
They were greatly frightened at finding themselves in the castle and
surrounded by people. When entirely restored to consciousness, they
wished to speak.
“Silence knaves,” said Doctor Tudoux slowly and calmly. “Silence, there
is no necessity for your telling us who you are or what brought you
here.”
Finot put his hand in his vest; the papers were not there, he sought
his knife, it was also gone. He looked at Passe Partout with a serious
air and said in a low voice:
“I told you in the woods I heard a noise.”
“Hush,” answered Passe Partout in the same tone, “they will understand.
We must deny everything.”
“But the papers, they have them.”
“We must say we found them.”
“And the knives?”
“We found them also, we must make a bold stand.”
“Do you know who it was gave you that blow on the head which stretched
you senseless?”
“My faith! I do not know, I had not time to see or hear. I found myself
on the ground and struck in a trice.”
“And I the same. We must find out however, if they saw us climb the
wall.”
“We will indeed find out, those who attacked us, of course, will tell
how and why.”
“That is true. Till then we must deny everything. Just now, let us
agree upon the details of our account, so as not to contradict each
other. First, were we journeying together? Where did we find the—”
“Separate these two men,” said Louis’s father, “they are agreeing upon
the tale they are to tell.”
Two men seized Finot, and two, Passe Partout, bound them hand and foot,
in spite of their resistance, and carried Passe Partout into another
room.
The night was far advanced, all were impatiently awaiting the chief
of the police. About daybreak he arrived, and accompanied by four
policeman, having been told there was question of arresting two
robbers. My little masters’ fathers recounted all that had happened,
and produced the knives and papers found in the men’s pockets.
“This sort of a knife,” said the officer, “indicates dangerous
burglars, who murder to further their purposes. Moreover, it is easy
to learn from these papers, that they had planned several robberies
in the neighborhood. I would not be at all surprised if these two men
were not Finot and Passe Partout, very hardened brigands escaped from
the galleys, and now the object of official pursuit in several of
the departments, where they have committed numberless and audacious
thefts. I am going to examine them separately, you may assist at the
examination if you wish.”
Saying this, he entered the room where Finot lay. Looking at him an
instant, he said:
“Good morning, Finot! so you are taken at last.”
Finot trembled and reddened, but said nothing.
“Ah! Finot, so we have lost our tongue? Nevertheless, it was voluble
enough at the last trial.”