Throughout the whole countryside the Lucas farm, was known as “the
Manor.” No one knew why. The peasants doubtless attached to this
word, “Manor,” a meaning of wealth and of splendor, for this farm was
undoubtedly the largest, richest and the best managed in the whole
neighborhood.
The immense court, surrounded by five rows of magnificent trees, which
sheltered the delicate apple trees from the harsh wind of the plain,
inclosed in its confines long brick buildings used for storing fodder
and grain, beautiful stables built of hard stone and made to accommodate
thirty horses, and a red brick residence which looked like a little
chateau.
Thanks for the good care taken, the manure heaps were as little
offensive as such things can be; the watch-dogs lived in kennels, and
countless poultry paraded through the tall grass.
Every day, at noon, fifteen persons, masters, farmhands and the women
folks, seated themselves around the long kitchen table where the soup
was brought in steaming in a large, blue-flowered bowl.
The beasts-horses, cows, pigs and sheep-were fat, well fed and clean.
Maitre Lucas, a tall man who was getting stout, would go round three
times a day, overseeing everything and thinking of everything.
A very old white horse, which the mistress wished to keep until its
natural death, because she had brought it up and had always used it, and
also because it recalled many happy memories, was housed, through sheer
kindness of heart, at the end of the stable.
A young scamp about fifteen years old, Isidore Duval by name, and
called, for convenience, Zidore, took care of this pensioner, gave him
his measure of oats and fodder in winter, and in summer was supposed
to change his pasturing place four times a day, so that he might have
plenty of fresh grass.
The animal, almost crippled, lifted with difficulty his legs, large at
the knees and swollen above the hoofs. His coat, which was no longer
curried, looked like white hair, and his long eyelashes gave to his eyes
a sad expression.
When Zidore took the animal to pasture, he had to pull on the rope with
all his might, because it walked so slowly; and the youth, bent over and
out of breath, would swear at it, exasperated at having to care for this
old nag.
The farmhands, noticing the young rascal's anger against Coco, were
amused and would continually talk of the horse to Zidore, in order to
exasperate him. His comrades would make sport with him. In the village
he was called Coco-Zidore.
The boy would fume, feeling an unholy desire to revenge himself on the
horse. He was a thin, long-legged, dirty child, with thick, coarse,
bristly red hair. He seemed only half-witted, and stuttered as though
ideas were unable to form in his thick, brute-like mind.
For a long time he had been unable to understand why Coco should be
kept, indignant at seeing things wasted on this useless beast. Since the
horse could no longer work, it seemed to him unjust that he should
be fed; he revolted at the idea of wasting oats, oats which were so
expensive, on this paralyzed old plug. And often, in spite of the orders
of Maitre Lucas, he would economize on the nag's food, only giving him
half measure. Hatred grew in his confused, childlike mind, the hatred of
a stingy, mean, fierce, brutal and cowardly peasant.
When summer came he had to move the animal about in the pasture. It was
some distance away. The rascal, angrier every morning, would start,
with his dragging step, across the wheat fields. The men working in the
fields would shout to him, jokingly:
“Hey, Zidore, remember me to Coco.”
He would not answer; but on the way he would break off a switch, and, as
soon as he had moved the old horse, he would let it begin grazing; then,
treacherously sneaking up behind it, he would slash its legs. The animal
would try to escape, to kick, to get away from the blows, and run around
in a circle about its rope, as though it had been inclosed in a circus
ring. And the boy would slash away furiously, running along behind, his
teeth clenched in anger.
Then he would go away slowly, without turning round, while the horse
watched him disappear, his ribs sticking out, panting as a result of his
unusual exertions. Not until the blue blouse of the young peasant was
out of sight would he lower his thin white head to the grass.
As the nights were now warm, Coco was allowed to sleep out of doors, in
the field behind the little wood. Zidore alone went to see him. The boy
threw stones at him to amuse himself. He would sit down on an embankment
about ten feet away and would stay there about half an hour, from time
to time throwing a sharp stone at the old horse, which remained standing
tied before his enemy, watching him continually and not daring to eat
before he was gone.
This one thought persisted in the mind of the young scamp: “Why feed
this horse, which is no longer good for anything?” It seemed to him that
this old nag was stealing the food of the others, the goods of man and
God, that he was even robbing him, Zidore, who was working.
Then, little by little, each day, the boy began to shorten the length of
rope which allowed the horse to graze.
The hungry animal was growing thinner, and starving. Too feeble to
break his bonds, he would stretch his head out toward the tall, green,
tempting grass, so near that he could smell, and yet so far that he
could not touch it.
But one morning Zidore had an idea: it was, not to move Coco any more.
He was tired of walking so far for that old skeleton. He came, however,
in order to enjoy his vengeance. The beast watched him anxiously. He
did not beat him that day. He walked around him with his hands in his
pockets. He even pretended to change his place, but he sank the stake in
exactly the same hole, and went away overjoyed with his invention.
The horse, seeing him leave, neighed to call him back; but the rascal
began to run, leaving him alone, entirely alone in his field, well tied
down and without a blade of grass within reach.
Starving, he tried to reach the grass which he could touch with the end
of his nose. He got on his knees, stretching out his neck and his
long, drooling lips. All in vain. The old animal spent the whole day
in useless, terrible efforts. The sight of all that green food, which
stretched out on all sides of him, served to increase the gnawing pangs
of hunger.
The scamp did not return that day. He wandered through the woods in
search of nests.
The next day he appeared upon the scene again. Coco, exhausted, had
lain down. When he saw the boy, he got up, expecting at last to have his
place changed.
But the little peasant did not even touch the mallet, which was lying
on the ground. He came nearer, looked at the animal, threw at his head
a clump of earth which flattened out against the white hair, and he
started off again, whistling.
The horse remained standing as long as he could see him; then, knowing
that his attempts to reach the near-by grass would be hopeless, he once
more lay down on his side and closed his eyes.
The following day Zidore did not come.
When he did come at last, he found Coco still stretched out; he saw that
he was dead.
Then he remained standing, looking at him, pleased with what he had
done, surprised that it should already be all over. He touched him with
his foot, lifted one of his legs and then let it drop, sat on him and
remained there, his eyes fixed on the grass, thinking of nothing. He
returned to the farm, but did not mention the accident, because he
wished to wander about at the hours when he used to change the horse's
pasture. He went to see him the next day. At his approach some crows
flew away. Countless flies were walking over the body and were buzzing
around it. When he returned home, he announced the event. The animal was
so old that nobody was surprised. The master said to two of the men:
“Take your shovels and dig a hole right where he is.”
The men buried the horse at the place where he had died of hunger. And
the grass grew thick, green and vigorous, fed by the poor body.