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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78917 ***
+
+
+
+
+  Transcriber’s Note
+  Italic text displayed as: _italic_
+
+
+
+
+ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY
+
+[Illustration:
+
+  CADICHON,
+  THE DONKEY,
+  SPEAKS!!
+]
+
+
+
+
+  THE
+
+  ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY
+
+  FROM THE FRENCH OF
+
+  _Mme. LA COMTESSE DE SÉGUR_.
+
+  BY P. S., A GRADUATE OF ST. JOSEPH’S, EMMITTSBURG, MD.
+
+  ILLUSTRATED.
+
+  BALTIMORE:
+  PUBLISHED BY JOHN B. PIET,
+  NO. 174 WEST BALTIMORE STREET,
+  1881.
+
+
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT, JOHN B. PIET, 1880.
+
+  _Press of John B. Piet, Baltimore._
+
+
+
+
+TO MY LITTLE MASTER,
+
+M. HENRI DE SÉGUR.
+
+
+My little master, you have been good to me, but you have spoken
+contemptuously of donkeys in general. To make you better acquainted
+with them, I write and offer you this story of my adventures, from
+which you will learn, my dear little master, how I, a poor donkey, and
+my very many donkey friends, have been and are still unjustly treated
+by men. You will see that we have much intelligence and many excellent
+qualities; you will also see how wicked I was in my youth, that I was
+severely punished for it, and how repentance changed me and restored
+to me the friendship of my comrades and masters. In fine, you will
+perceive on reading this book, that instead of saying “as stupid as a
+donkey, as ignorant as a donkey, as headstrong as a donkey,” one should
+say, “as intelligent as a donkey, as learned as a donkey, as docile as
+a donkey,” and that you and your kindred might well be proud of these
+eulogiums.
+
+Hi! han! my good master, I hope no period of your life may resemble the
+early years of your faithful servant,
+
+  CADICHON, THE LEARNED DONKEY.
+
+
+
+
+ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY.
+
+
+I do not remember my infancy; I was probably unhappy, like all infant
+donkeys, pretty and graceful as we all are. I was certainly very
+intelligent, since, even at my present time of life, being now somewhat
+advanced in years, my mental endowments are far superior to those of
+my comrades. More than once did I outwit my poor masters, who were
+but men, and who, consequently, could not be expected to possess the
+intelligence of a donkey.
+
+I shall begin these Adventures by relating one of the tricks I played
+upon them in my youth.
+
+
+
+
+TABLE OF CONTENTS.
+
+
+      I.—THE MARKET,                                                   1
+
+     II.—THE PURSUIT,                                                  8
+
+    III.—THE NEW MASTERS,                                             13
+
+     IV.—THE BRIDGE,                                                  17
+
+      V.—THE CEMETERY,                                                24
+
+     VI.—THE HIDING PLACE,                                            32
+
+    VII.—THE LOCKET,                                                  40
+
+   VIII.—THE FIRE,                                                    46
+
+     IX.—THE DONKEY RACE,                                             53
+
+      X.—GOOD MASTERS,                                                66
+
+     XI.—CADICHON SICK,                                               75
+
+    XII.—THE ROBBERS,                                                 78
+
+   XIII.—THE VAULTS,                                                  86
+
+    XIV.—THERESA,                                                     94
+
+     XV.—THE GUNNING PARTY,                                          111
+
+    XVI.—MEDOR,                                                      122
+
+   XVII.—THE SCHOOL CHILDREN,                                        132
+
+  XVIII.—THE BAPTISM,                                                138
+
+    XIX.—THE LEARNED DONKEY,                                         147
+
+     XX.—THE FROG,                                                   164
+
+    XXI.—THE PONY,                                                   168
+
+   XXII.—THE PUNISHMENT,                                             180
+
+  XXIII.—THE REFORMATION,                                            194
+
+   XXIV.—THE ROBBERS,                                                218
+
+    XXV.—THE REPARATION,                                             239
+
+   XXVI.—THE BOAT,                                                   254
+
+  Conclusion                                                         272
+
+
+
+
+THE ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+THE MARKET.
+
+
+Men not being supposed to be aware of all that donkeys know, you, who
+read this book, are doubtless ignorant of what is well known to all my
+donkey friends, namely: that every Tuesday in the town of Laigle there
+is held a market, where vegetables, butter, eggs, cheese and other
+excellent things are sold. This Tuesday is a day of torture for my poor
+comrades; it was so for me before I was bought by my present good old
+mistress, your grandmother. I belonged to a farmer’s wife, exacting and
+cruel. Just imagine, my dear little master, that she carried her malice
+so far as to collect all the eggs her hens laid, all the butter and
+cheese from her cows’ milk, all the vegetables and fruits that ripened
+during the week, to fill baskets which she placed upon my back.
+
+And when I was so heavily laden that I could scarcely move, this wicked
+woman seated herself upon the baskets and obliged me to trot thus
+burdened, overwhelmed, indeed, to the market of Laigle, a league from
+the farm. I was all this time in a rage I dared not show, for fear of
+the stick my mistress carried, a very big one full of knots, that hurt
+sorely when she beat me. Whenever I saw or heard these preparations for
+market, I sighed, I groaned, I ever brayed, in hopes of softening the
+hearts of my owners.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Shut your mouth, great idle thing,” said they, coming to get me, “shut
+your mouth, and do not deafen us with your coarse, horrid voice. Hi!
+han! hi! han! that is beautiful music you are giving us! Edward, my
+boy, bring this lazy beast up to the door whilst your mother puts the
+load on his back. Here is a basket of eggs—one more! The cheese—the
+butter!—now the vegetables. That’s right! Here is a fine load, that is
+going to bring us several five franc pieces. Mary, my daughter, bring
+a chair for your mother to mount the donkey. Good-bye, a pleasant trip,
+wife, and make this lazy beast move. Hold on, here is your stick, hit
+him with it.”
+
+Pan! Pan!
+
+“That’s right, a few more caresses of that kind and he’ll go.”
+
+Vlan! Vlan! The stick never ceased to belabor my sides, my legs, my
+neck; I trotted, I almost galloped, yet the woman still beat me. I was
+indignant at so much injustice and cruelty; I tried to kick and throw
+her off, but I was too heavily burdened; I could only start and sway
+from side to side, thus affording myself the satisfaction of feeling
+her slipping down. “Wicked donkey! stupid animal! headstrong creature!”
+said she, “I am going to teach you better, I’ll let you feel the weight
+of my stick.”
+
+And indeed, she beat me so I could scarcely reach the town. We arrived
+at last. All the baskets were lifted off my poor skinned back and
+placed on the ground. My mistress having tied me to a post, went to
+breakfast, whilst I, who was dying of hunger and thirst, got not a
+sprig of grass, or a drop of water. I found means of getting close to
+the vegetables during her absence and refreshed myself by filling my
+stomach with a basket of salad and cabbage. I had never eaten anything
+so good in my life, but just as I was finishing the last cabbage and
+the last salad, my mistress returned. She uttered a scream on seeing
+her basket empty; I regarded her with such a satisfied insolent air,
+that she immediately recognized me as the author of her loss. I shall
+not repeat to you the names she called me. She was very high-tempered,
+and when in a rage, she swore and said things that made me blush,
+donkey as I am. Having loaded me with the most humiliating reproaches,
+to which I made no reply, except by licking my lips and turning my back
+upon her, she took her stick and began to beat me so cruelly, that I,
+at last, lost all patience, and launched at her three kicks, the first
+of which broke her nose and two teeth; the second, her wrist, and the
+third, striking her in the stomach, knocked her over. Twenty persons
+rushed upon me, overwhelming me with blows and vile words. They carried
+my mistress off, I know not where, and left me attached to the post,
+near which the marketing I had brought was displayed. Here I remained a
+long time; seeing that no one thought of me, I ate a second basket of
+excellent vegetables, and cutting with my teeth the cord that held me,
+I quietly took the road home.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Every one I passed on the way seemed astonished at seeing me alone.
+
+“Look, there is a donkey with a broken strap! He has escaped,” said one.
+
+“It must be a fugitive from the galleys,” said another. And they all
+began to laugh.
+
+“He doesn’t carry a heavy load on his back,” remarked a third.
+
+“Very true,” exclaimed a youth, “he has been at some mischief.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Catch him, husband,” said a woman, “let us put the little one in the
+saddle.”
+
+“He will carry you as well as the little boy,” replied the husband.
+
+Wishing to give them a good opinion of my gentleness and condescension,
+I very quietly approached the woman and stopped to let her mount.
+
+“He doesn’t seem at all vicious,” said the man, helping his wife into
+the saddle.
+
+I smiled with pity at hearing this. Vicious! as if a donkey kindly
+treated was ever vicious! We become ill-tempered, disobedient,
+headstrong, only in retaliation for the blows and foul names heaped
+upon us. When properly treated, we are good-natured—much better in this
+respect than other animals.
+
+I carried the wife and child home. The latter was a pretty little boy
+about two years old, who caressed me fondly, thought me charming, and
+wanted to keep me altogether. But I reflected that this would not be
+honest; my masters had bought me, I belonged to them. I had already
+revenged myself upon my mistress by breaking her nose, teeth, and
+wrist, and giving her a good kick in the stomach. Seeing, then, that
+the mother would yield to the little boy, whom she spoiled (I soon
+perceived this whilst they were on my back), I jumped to one side, and
+before the mother could seize my bridle, was off in a gallop towards
+home.
+
+Mary, my master’s daughter, saw me first.
+
+“Oh! there is Cadichon. How early he has returned. Here, Edward, come
+take off his saddle.”
+
+“Wicked creature,” said Edward, in an angry tone, “one has always to be
+bothered with you. But why has he returned alone? I’ll bet he has run
+away. Vile beast!” he added, kicking me on the leg, “if I knew you had
+escaped, I would give you a hundred licks of the stick!”
+
+Once rid of my saddle and bridle, I went off galloping. Scarcely had I
+entered the pasture when I heard loud cries proceeding from the house.
+Approaching the hedge, I saw that the farmer’s wife had been brought
+home, and I recognized the screams as those of the children. I listened
+most intently, and heard Edward say to his father:
+
+“Father, I am going to tie him to a tree, and take the big wagon, whip
+and beat him till he falls to the ground!”
+
+“Very well, my son, go, but do not kill him, for we would lose what he
+cost us. I shall sell him at the next fair.”
+
+I trembled with fright on hearing these words, and on seeing Edward
+run to the stable for the whip. There was no time for hesitation, and
+without any scruple now as to defrauding my owner of what he had paid
+for me, I ran towards the hedge separating me from the fields, and
+dashed against it with such force, that I broke the branches and made
+my way through. I ran at full speed through the field, and I continued
+to gallop a very long time, believing myself pursued. At last, unable
+to go farther, I stopped; I listened, but heard nothing. I mounted a
+slight eminence, I saw no one. Then I began to breathe freely, and
+rejoice at having delivered myself from these wicked farmers.
+
+But I now commenced to wonder what would become of me. If I remained
+where was, I would be discovered, recognized and taken back to my
+master’s. What should I do? where should I go?
+
+I looked around, and finding myself solitary and unhappy, I was about
+to shed tears over my sad fate, when I perceived that I was on the edge
+of a magnificent woods, it was the forest of St. Evroult.
+
+“What good luck!” I exclaimed, “In this forest I shall find tender
+herbage, water, fresh moss; I shall remain here a few days, and then go
+to another forest, farther, much farther from my master’s farm.”
+
+I entered the forest; I ate with delight the tender grass and I drank
+the water from a beautiful spring. Towards night, I lay down on the
+moss at the foot of an old pine, and there slept peacefully till
+morning.
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+THE PURSUIT.
+
+
+The next morning after eating and drinking, I thought over my happiness.
+
+“Here,” said I, “they can never find me, I am saved. In two days,
+however, when I shall have rested from my fatigue, I will go still
+farther.”
+
+Scarcely was this reflection finished, when I heard the distant barking
+of a dog, then of another, and in a few minutes I distinguished the
+sound of a whole pack of hounds. Anxious, and even somewhat frightened,
+I arose and went towards a little stream that I had noticed in the
+morning. Scarcely had I done so, ere I heard Edward saying to the dogs:
+
+“Come, come, dogs, seek him well, find me this wicked donkey, bite him,
+tear his legs to pieces and bring him to me, that I may lay my whip on
+his back.”
+
+[Illustration: Towards evening two men entered the meadow.—(Page 11.)]
+
+I nearly sank to the ground from fright; but suddenly remembering that
+I could throw the dogs off my track by walking in the water, I ran at
+once to the stream, which fortunately was bordered on both sides with
+very thick bushes. I walked a very long time without stopping; the
+barking of the dogs died away in the distance, as well as the voice of
+the wicked Edward.
+
+Breathless and exhausted I stopped an instant to drink, and I ate a
+few leaves from the bushes. My legs were stiff with cold, but I dared
+not quit the water, for fear the dogs might return and get upon my
+trail. When somewhat rested I began to run, following the stream all
+the while, until I was out of the forest. I then found myself in a vast
+meadow, where cows and oxen (over fifty in number) were pasturing. They
+took no notice of me, so I lay down in the sun to rest in a corner of
+the field.
+
+Towards evening two men entered the meadow.
+
+“Brother,” said the tallest of the two, “shall we not bring up the
+cattle to-night? they say there are wolves in the woods.”
+
+“Wolves! who told you that nonsense?”
+
+“The Aigle folks. They tell how a donkey from the hedge farm was
+carried off and devoured in the forest.”
+
+“Bah! let it go, the people of that farm are so cruel, they have beaten
+their donkey to death.”
+
+“Why, then, would they say the wolves devoured it?”
+
+“Because it is not known that they killed it.”
+
+“Even so, it would be better to bring in the cattle.”
+
+“Do as you wish, brother, I leave it to you.”
+
+I did not stir in my corner, for fear of being discovered. The grass
+was high and concealed me entirely, the cattle did not pass near me,
+but were driven towards the gate and thence to their masters’ farm.
+
+I had no fear of wolves, for I was the very donkey of whom the men
+spoke; and in the forest where I had passed the night, I had not seen
+even a wolf’s trail. So I slept delightfully, and was finishing my
+breakfast when the cattle re-entered the field, led by two big dogs.
+
+Whilst I was quietly looking at them, one of the dogs perceived me,
+and barking fiercely, ran at me, followed by his companion. What would
+become of me? how should I escape them? I rushed against the fence
+enclosing the meadow; the stream I had followed crossed the lot, and I
+was fortunate enough to clear this stream, also to hear the voice of
+one of the men I had seen the evening before, calling back his dogs. I
+quietly continued my walk until I had reached another forest, the name
+of which I did not know. I must now have been more than ten leagues
+from the hedge farm; consequently I was safe, no one knew me, and I
+could show myself without fear of being taken back to my former owners.
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+THE NEW MASTERS.
+
+
+I lived peacefully in this forest one month. Sometimes I felt a little
+lonesome, but I preferred solitude to misery. I was then tolerably
+happy, when I began to perceive that the grass was getting scarce and
+dry, the leaves falling, the water freezing, the ground growing damp.
+
+“Alas! alas!” thought I, “what is to become of me? If I stay here I
+shall perish of cold, of hunger and thirst, but where shall I go? who
+is there that wants me?”
+
+By dint of reflection, I devised a means of securing shelter. Leaving
+the forest, I went to a little village near by. There I saw a small,
+neat looking, isolated house, and a good woman seated at the door
+spinning. I was touched with her sad, gentle appearance; I approached
+her and put my head upon her shoulder. Much startled, the good woman
+uttered a scream and jumped up from her chair. I did not stir, but
+regarded her with a pitiful, supplicating air.
+
+“Poor beast!” said she, at length, “you do not look wicked. If no one
+owned you, I would be very much pleased to have you supply the place of
+my poor old Grison, who died of old age. I could then continue to make
+my living selling my vegetables at the market. But, no doubt, you have
+a master,” she added, sighing.
+
+“To whom are you talking, grandmother?” said a soft voice from the
+inside of the house.
+
+“I am talking to a donkey that has come here and put his head on my
+shoulder, and he looks at me so pitifully that I haven’t the heart to
+drive him away.”
+
+“Let me see! let me see!” answered the soft voice. And immediately
+there appeared on the threshold a handsome little boy six or seven
+years of age, neatly but poorly clad. He looked at me with a curious,
+half timid air.
+
+“May I pet him, grandmother?” said he.
+
+“Certainly, my George, but take care that he does not bite you.”
+
+The little boy extended his arm, and not being able to reach me, he
+advanced a step, then another, and began to smooth my back.
+
+I did not stir for fear of frightening him; I only turned my head
+towards him, and passed my tongue over his hand.
+
+“Grandmother, grandmother, this poor donkey is so good-natured, he has
+licked my hand.”
+
+“It is very strange that he should be alone. Where is his master? Go,
+George, to the village inn, where travelers stop, and make inquiries
+about him. His master is probably worried about him.”
+
+“Shall I take the donkey, grandmother?”
+
+“He will not follow you; let him go where he wishes.”
+
+George started off in a run; I trotted after him. When he saw that I
+followed, he came to me, and petting me, said: “Say then, my pretty
+donkey, since you follow me, you will surely let me ride you.” And he
+mounted at once, exclaiming as he did so, “get up!” I went off in a
+little gallop, which enchanted him. “Ho! ho!” said he before the inn,
+I stopped immediately, and George dismounted. I remained opposite the
+door, not stirring any more than if I had been tied.
+
+“What is it, my boy?” said the inn-keeper.
+
+“I came to know, Mr. Duval, if this donkey at the door belongs to you
+or any of your customers?”
+
+Mr. Duval came to the door and regarded me attentively. “No, my boy,”
+said he, “it is not mine, nor that of any one I know. You will have to
+inquire further.”
+
+George remounted, and setting off again in a gallop, we went from house
+to house, inquiring for my owner. No one knew me, and we returned to
+the good grandmother, who was still sitting in the door spinning.
+
+“Grandmother, the donkey belongs to no one about here. What are we to
+do with him? He keeps close to me, but he jumps away when anybody else
+tries to touch him.”
+
+“In that case, my George, we must not let him stay out-doors all night;
+something might happen to him. Lead him to our poor Grison’s stable,
+give him a bundle of hay and a bucket of water. We can take him to
+market to-morrow, and perhaps we may find his master.”
+
+“And if we do not find him, grandmother?”
+
+“We will keep the donkey till some one claims him. We could not let the
+poor beast perish of cold this winter, or fall into the hands of wicked
+people who would beat him, or cause his death from fatigue and hard
+treatment.”
+
+After giving me food and water, George caressed me and went out,
+saying, as he shut the door:
+
+“How I hope he has no master, so he may stay with us.”
+
+Next day, having given me my breakfast, George put a halter on my neck
+and led me up to the door; the grandmother next placed a very light
+pack-saddle on my back and seated herself upon it. George then brought
+a little basket of vegetables, which she took upon her knees, and we
+set out for the market of Mamers. The good woman sold her vegetables at
+a fair price, no one recognized me, and I returned with my new mistress.
+
+I lived there four years; I was happy, injuring no one and making
+myself very useful, for I loved my little master, who never beat me,
+never worked me to death and always fed me well. However, I was no
+glutton; in summer, remnants of vegetables and the herbs which neither
+the horses nor cows ate; in winter a little hay and the skins of
+potatoes, carrots and turnips, satisfied my wants, as is the case with
+other donkeys.
+
+There were some days I did not enjoy, those on which my mistress hired
+me to the children in the neighborhood. Being poor, and not always
+having enough work to keep me busy, she was very glad to make a little
+something by hiring me to the children of the castle near by.
+
+They were not always good children.
+
+Listen to what happened on one of these excursions.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+THE BRIDGE.
+
+
+There were six donkeys drawn up in the yard; I was one of the
+handsomest and strongest of the number. Three little girls brought
+us oats in a bucket. Whilst eating I listened to the children’s
+conversation.
+
+“Come,” said Charles, “let us choose our donkeys, as for myself, I take
+that one,” pointing to me with his finger.
+
+“You always take the best,” answered the five children at once, “we
+must draw lots.”
+
+“How do you wish us to draw lots, Caroline,” replied Charles, “do we
+put the donkeys in a bag and draw them out as one does balls?”
+
+“Ah! ah! ah!” said Francis, “what an idiot, with his donkeys in a bag!
+As if one could not number them 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, put the numbers in a
+bag, and let each draw his number.”
+
+“So we can,” cried the five others, “Ernest set down the numbers, while
+we write them on the donkey’s backs.”
+
+These children are dunces, said I to myself. If they had the sense of
+a donkey, instead of tiring themselves writing numbers on our backs,
+they would simply arrange us along the wall, the first would be 1, the
+second, 2, and so on for the rest.
+
+Meanwhile, Francis had brought a big piece of coal. I was the first,
+so he made an enormous 1 on my back; whilst he wrote 2 on that of my
+comrade, I gave myself a vigorous shake, to convince him that his
+invention was not a famous one. Behold, the particles of coal flew off
+and the 1 disappeared. “You dunce!” cried he, “I must commence over.”
+Whilst he re-wrote his number 1, my comrade that had perceived my
+doings, and was also mischievous, shook himself in turn. Behold the 2
+disappear. Francis began to get angry; the others laughed and mocked
+him. I made a sign to my comrades and we let him number us, no one
+budged. Ernest returned with the numbers in his handkerchief; each one
+drew. Whilst they were looking at what they had drawn I made another
+sign to my comrades, and we all shook ourselves worse than ever. More
+coal, more numbers, it must be commenced over, the children were
+enraged. Charles was triumphant and giggled; Ernest, Albert, Caroline,
+Cecilia and Louisa were indignant at Francis, who in turn, stamped
+his foot, my comrades and I began to bray. The noise attracted the
+papas and mamas. The cause was explained to them and one of the papas
+suggested the plan of arranging us along the wall. He made the children
+draw their numbers.
+
+“One!” cried Ernest. It was myself.
+
+“Two!” cried Cecilia. It was one of my friends.
+
+“Three,” cried Francis, and so on to the last.
+
+“Let us start now,” said Charles, “I go first.”
+
+“Oh! I shall soon overtake you,” replied Ernest with animation.
+
+“I bet not.”
+
+“I bet I shall.”
+
+Charles taps his donkey, which sets off at a gallop. Before Ernest has
+time to touch me with a whip, I start also, and at such a pace that
+Charles is speedily overtaken. Ernest is delighted, Charles is furious.
+He taps and keeps tapping his donkey. Ernest has no need to tap me; I
+run, I fly like the wind. I pass Charles in a minute, and I hear the
+others who follow, laughing, and crying out:
+
+“Bravo! donkey number 1, bravo! he runs like a horse.”
+
+Self love gives me courage; I continue to gallop until we reach a
+bridge. I stop suddenly, for I have just perceived that a large plank
+in the bridge is rotten; I do not wish to fall in the water with
+Ernest, but to return to the others who are far, far behind us.
+
+“Ho there! ho there! donkey,” said Ernest to me. “On the bridge,
+donkey, on the bridge.”
+
+I resist, he gives me a touch with the switch.
+
+I still continue to walk towards the others.
+
+“Headstrong thing! stupid brute! will you turn and pass the bridge?”
+
+I walk on towards my comrades and rejoin them, in spite of this wicked
+boy’s cross words and blows.
+
+“Why do you beat your donkey, Ernest?” cries Caroline, “he is
+excellent, he went flying and you overtook Charles.”
+
+“I beat him to make him go over the bridge, he is determined to turn
+back.”
+
+“Ah! bah! because he was alone; now that we are all together he will
+pass the bridge like the rest.”
+
+“Unfortunate creatures!” think I, “they are all going to fall into the
+river. I must try to convince them of the danger.”
+
+And I set off in a gallop towards the bridge, to Ernest’s great
+satisfaction and amidst cries of joy from the other children.
+
+I gallop up to the bridge; reaching it, I stop suddenly as if afraid,
+Ernest astonished, urges me on, I recoil with an air of fright that
+surprises Ernest still more. Silly boy! he sees nothing though the
+rotten board is in full view. The others rejoin him, and enjoy the
+spectacle of his efforts to make me go across and mine not to do so. At
+last the whole party dismount from their donkeys, each one pushing and
+beating me mercilessly, still I budge not.
+
+“Pull him by the tail,” cries Charles, “donkeys are so headstrong that
+if you want to make them go one way, they are sure to go the other.”
+
+Behold them seize me by the tail. I defend myself with a kick; they all
+beat me at once, and yet I will not move an inch.
+
+“Wait Ernest,” says Charles, “let me go first and he will certainly
+follow.”
+
+He tries to advance, to prevent him I place myself crosswise before the
+bridge, but by dint of blows he makes me fall back.
+
+[Illustration: “A pole! a pole!” he cried.—(Page 23.)]
+
+“Well,” said I to myself, “I’ll give up, if this bad boy wants to be
+drowned, let him be, I have done my best to save him; since he is so
+determined, let him taste a draught.”
+
+Scarcely had his donkey touched the rotten plank, ere it gave way, and
+both rider and animal were thrown into the water. There was no danger
+for my comrade, as like the rest of his race, he knew how to swim, but
+Charles struggled and screamed without the power of extricating himself.
+
+“A pole! a pole!” he cried.
+
+The children ran in every direction, at last Caroline found a long
+pole, which she hastily held out to him; he seized it, but his weight
+was dragging her in, and she called for help. Ernest, Francis and
+Albert ran to her. At length, with a great deal of difficulty, they
+succeeded in drawing to land the unhappy Charles, who had drank more
+than he relished, and who was wet from head to foot. When assured of
+his safety, they all began to laugh at his piteous plight; Charles got
+angry, they jumped upon their donkeys, and with bursts of laughter
+advised him to return to the house and change his clothes. Wet as he
+was, he mounted his donkey. I laughed in my sleeve at his ridiculous
+figure, the current had carried away his hat and shoes, the water was
+running off him to the ground, his dripping hair clung to him, and his
+countenance was furious—altogether he was a most ludicrous picture. The
+children laughed, my comrades pranced and ran to express their delight.
+
+I ought to add that Charles’ donkey was detested by the rest of us,
+because he was quarrelsome, gluttonous and stupid, qualities very rare
+among us.
+
+At length Charles disappeared, and both children and donkeys became
+more quiet. Every one caressed me and admired my spirit, and we all
+started off again, I at the head of the band.
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+THE CEMETERY.
+
+
+We went at a brisk pace; and soon approached the village cemetery,
+which is about a league from the castle. “Suppose we turn back and take
+the forest road,” said Caroline.
+
+“Why?” asked Cecilia.
+
+“Because I do not like cemeteries.”
+
+“Why do you not like them,” replied Cecilia with an air of derision.
+“Are you afraid you will not get away?”
+
+“No, but I think of the poor people who are buried there, and it makes
+me sad.”
+
+The children ridiculed Caroline and rode directly past the wall. They
+were just about to keep on, when Caroline, who seemed disquieted,
+stopped her donkey, leaped off, and ran to the cemetery gate.
+
+“What are you doing, Caroline, where are you going?” exclaimed the
+others.
+
+Caroline did not answer, but hurriedly pushing open the gate, she
+entered the cemetery, looked all around her, and ran towards a freshly
+made grave.
+
+Ernest, who had anxiously followed, had caught up with her, at the
+moment when bending over the grave, she lifted up a poor little boy, of
+about three years, whose moans had attracted her attention.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“What is the matter, my poor little one? Why are you crying?”
+
+The child could not answer for his sobs.
+
+“Why are you here alone?” said Caroline again, noticing the child’s
+beauty and miserable clothing.
+
+“They left me here, I am hungry,” he answered sobbing.
+
+“Who left you here?”
+
+“The black men, I am hungry,” was the answer accompanied with another
+sob.
+
+“Ernest,” said Caroline, “run, and get our lunch, quick; we must give
+this poor little fellow something to eat; he will tell us afterwards
+why he weeps, and why he is here.”
+
+Ernest ran to get the basket of provisions, whilst Caroline endeavored
+to console the child. In a few minutes Ernest re-appeared, followed by
+the whole band, whom curiosity had attracted to the spot. They gave the
+child some cold chicken and some bread soaked in wine. As he ate, his
+tears ceased to flow, his countenance became smiling. When he had eaten
+heartily, Caroline again asked him why he was lying on this grave.
+
+“Because they have put grandmother here. I want to wait till she comes
+back.”
+
+“Where is your papa?”
+
+“I can’t tell, I don’t know him.”
+
+“And your mama?”
+
+“I don’t know, black men carried her off as they did grandmother.”
+
+“But who takes care of you?”
+
+“No one.”
+
+“Who feeds you?”
+
+“Nobody, I suck nurse.”
+
+“Where is your nurse?”
+
+“Down there at the house.”
+
+“What does she do?”
+
+“She walks, and she eats grass.”
+
+“Grass?”
+
+Here all the children looked at one another with surprise.
+
+“Is she silly?” said Cecilia in an undertone.
+
+“He does not know what he is saying,” replied Francis, “he is too
+little.”
+
+“Why,” continued Caroline, “does not your nurse take you home?”
+
+“She can’t, she has no arms.”
+
+The children’s surprise increased.
+
+“How then can she carry you?”
+
+“I get on her back.”
+
+“Do you sleep with her?”
+
+“Oh! no, I could not do that,” said the child smiling.
+
+“Where then does she sleep? Hasn’t she a bed?”
+
+The child began to laugh as he answered.
+
+“Oh! no, she sleeps on straw.”
+
+“What does he mean,” said Ernest, “let us ask him to take us to the
+house, we shall see his nurse, and she can explain matters.”
+
+“I must confess, it is all a mystery to me,” said Francis.
+
+“Will you go back to your home, my little one?” asked Caroline.
+
+“Yes, but not all alone; I am afraid of the black men, grandma’s room
+was full of them.”
+
+“We will all go with you, you must show us the way.”
+
+Caroline remounted her donkey, and took the little boy upon her lap.
+He showed us the way, and in five minutes we all reached the cabin
+of mother Thibaut, who died the evening previous and was buried that
+morning. The child ran to the house and called out “Nurse! Nurse!”
+Immediately a goat bounded out of the open stable, and darting towards
+the child, testified its joy at his return by a thousand gambols and
+caresses. The child likewise fondled it, and then said “Suck Nurse.”
+The goat immediately lay down on the ground, the little boy stretched
+himself near her, and began to suck as if he had neither eaten nor
+drunk.
+
+“There, the nurse is explained,” said Ernest, at last. “What shall we
+do with this child?”
+
+“We have nothing to do with him, except leave him with his nurse,” said
+Francis.
+
+The others cried out with indignation.
+
+“It would be wrong,” answered Caroline, “to abandon this poor little
+one, he might soon die for want of care.”
+
+“What do you wish to do with him,” said Francis, “are you going to take
+him home with you?”
+
+“Certainly; I shall ask mama to keep him at the house whilst she makes
+inquiries as to who he is, and whether he has any relatives or not.”
+
+“And our donkey party, are we to give that up and all return?”
+
+[Illustration: The little boy stretched himself near the goat.—(Page
+28.)]
+
+“No, Ernest will be kind enough to accompany me, and the rest of you
+can continue your excursion, there will still be four, so you can well
+do without Ernest and me.”
+
+“She is right,” said Francis, “let us mount and continue our ride.”
+
+And they departed, leaving the kind Caroline with her cousin Ernest.
+
+“How fortunate it is they tried to tease me by passing so near the
+cemetery!” said she, “but for that, I would not have heard this poor
+child, and he would have spent the entire night on the cold, damp
+ground.”
+
+It was I whom Ernest mounted. With my usual intelligence, comprehending
+that we must reach the castle as promptly as possible, I set off at
+a gallop, my comrade followed, and we were there in half an hour.
+The family was startled at our unexpectedly early return. Caroline
+recounted her adventure with the child. Her mama was puzzled as to what
+arrangements could be made for him, when the porter’s wife offered
+to raise him with her son, who was about the same age. The offer was
+accepted. On sending to the village to make inquiries concerning his
+name and parentage, Caroline’s mama learned that his father had been
+dead a year, his mother six months; the child had been living with a
+wicked, miserly old grandmother, who had just died the day before, that
+following the coffin to the cemetery, he had been forgotten and left
+there; moreover, that he was not poor, the grandmother having been in
+comfortable circumstances. The porter’s wife raised him well, and he
+became a fine fellow. I know him, his name is John Thibaut, he is
+always kind to animals, which proves his good heart, and he is very
+fond of me, which proves his sense.
+
+The good goat was also brought to the porter’s and found a home there.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+THE HIDING PLACE.
+
+
+I have already said that I was happy, but my happiness was soon to end.
+George’s father was a soldier and when he returned to his country,
+bringing the money his dying captain had left him, and the cross given
+him by his general, he bought a house at Mamers, to which he removed
+his old mother and little son, and sold me to a neighboring farmer.
+I was very sad at leaving my good, old mistress and my little master
+George; both had been kind to me and I had been faithful to them.
+
+[Illustration: Cadichon’s master says good-by to his friends.—(Page
+35.)]
+
+My new owner was not unkind, but he had a foolish fancy for making
+everything about him work, and myself among the number. He used to
+harness me to a little cart and make me haul earth, manure, apples, and
+wood. I commenced to grow lazy, I did not like to be harnessed, and
+market day I especially detested, not that they loaded me too heavily
+or beat me, but because I had to stand without eating from the morning,
+till three or four o’clock in the afternoon. When the heat was great,
+I nearly died of thirst, waiting till everything was sold, till my
+master had received his money and said good day to his friends, with
+whom he must also take a glass.
+
+I was not very good in those days; I wanted fair treatment, if denied
+me I sought revenge. Here is one of my tricks, from which you will
+perceive not only that donkeys are not stupid, but also that I had
+become very bad.
+
+On market day the family arose earlier than usual—the vegetables
+were to be gathered, the butter churned, the eggs collected. In
+summer, sleeping out-doors in a large meadow, I saw and heard these
+preparations, and knew that at ten o’clock, they would come to harness
+me to the little cart filled with all their marketable produce. I have
+already said how tiresome and trying this market was to me, so having
+noticed in the meadow a large ditch filled with briers and brambles,
+here I determined if possible, to conceal myself in such a manner that
+no one could find me at the moment of departure. Market day arrived;
+as soon as I saw the farm folks beginning to move about, I very gently
+descended into the ditch, and there buried myself so completely,
+that discovery was almost impossible. I had been there an hour hid
+away amongst the briers, when I heard the boy calling me, running in
+every direction to find me, and at last returning to the farm-house.
+Doubtless he had apprised the master of my disappearance, for in a few
+minutes I heard the farmer’s voice calling his wife and all the other
+farm folks to come help find me.
+
+“He must have got through the hedge,” said one.
+
+“How could he have got through, there is no break anywhere,” replied
+the other.
+
+“Some one has left the gate open,” said the master. “Run into the
+fields boys, he cannot be far; go quick, and bring him, for time
+passes, and we shall be too late.”
+
+Every one started off into the fields or the woods, running and calling
+me. I laughed to myself down in the hole, and took good care not to
+make my appearance. After the lapse of an hour, they all returned
+breathless and panting, from a fruitless search.
+
+The master having sworn at me, and said no doubt I had been taken, put
+one of his horses to the cart, and drove off in a very bad humor. When
+I saw that all returned to their work, and no one could see me, lifting
+up my head very cautiously, I looked around. Finding myself alone, I
+suddenly emerged from the ditch, and running to the other end of the
+field, to mislead their suspicions as to where I had been, I began to
+bray with all my strength.
+
+At this noise every one on the farm ran.
+
+“Here he is come back,” cried the shepherd.
+
+“Which way did he come?” said the mistress.
+
+“Which way did he go?” replied the wagoner.
+
+In my joy at having escaped the market, I ran to them. They were
+delighted to see me, caressed me, said I was a good creature to have
+escaped from the thieves, and paid me so many compliments that I was
+ashamed, knowing full well how much more deserving I was of the stick
+than caresses. They let me graze quietly, and I should have passed a
+charming day, had not my conscience reproached me for having deceived
+my poor master.
+
+When the farmer came home and learned of my return, he was well
+pleased, but very much surprised. Next day he went all around the
+meadow, and carefully repaired even the slightest breach in the hedge.
+
+“The donkey will be very smart to escape now,” said he, on finishing. I
+have stopped even the smallest holes with stakes and brambles; there is
+not room enough for a cat to get through.
+
+The week passed quietly, my adventure was no longer thought of. But the
+next market day I repeated the wicked trick, and again concealed myself
+in the ditch, for so doing saved me so much fatigue and weariness. As
+before, they sought me everywhere; their astonishment was greater than
+ever, they were now fully convinced that a skillful thief had carried
+me off by letting me through the gate.
+
+“This time,” said my master sadly, “he is certainly lost. He will
+not be able to escape again, and even if he should, he could not get
+into the meadow, for I have repaired the breaches in the hedge too
+carefully.”
+
+He went off sighing, and one of the horses again took my place in the
+cart. As on the preceding occasion, I emerged from my hiding place
+when everybody had got out of the way, but I was prudent enough not to
+announce my appearance with a hi han! as before.
+
+When they found me quietly eating grass in the field, and my master
+learned that I had returned a short time after his departure, I saw
+that they had suspected me of some trick, for no one paid me any
+compliments, everyone eyed me with distrust, and I fully perceived that
+they watched me more closely than before. I laughed in my sleeve at
+them and said to myself:
+
+“Good friends, you will be very sharp if you discover the trick I have
+played on you; I am smarter than you, and I intend to keep the game up.”
+
+So I concealed myself a third time, very well pleased with my cunning.
+But scarcely was I stowed away in the ditch, ere I heard the furious
+barking of the big watch dog, and the voice of my master, saying:
+
+“Seize him Caesar, seize him; go down into the ditch, bite his legs,
+bring him! bravo my dog! seize him, seize him!”
+
+Caesar indeed darted down, he bit my legs, my body, and he would have
+devoured me, had I not decided to leave that ditch. I was about to run
+towards the hedge, and try forcing a passage through, when the farmer
+who was waiting for me, threw a slip knot over my head and brought
+me to a stand. He was armed with a whip and he made me feel it most
+sensibly; the dog continued to bite, the master to beat me, and I
+repented bitterly of my idleness. At last the farmer called Caesar off,
+put up his whip, exchanged the slip knot around my neck for a halter,
+and led me all mortified and beaten unmercifully, to the little cart
+which was in readiness for me.
+
+I learned afterwards that one of the children, who had been stationed
+near the gate, to open it if I returned, had perceived me coming out of
+the ditch, and had carried the news to his father. The little traitor!
+
+For a long time after, until my troubles and sad experience had taught
+me better, I wished all manner of evil to him.
+
+From that day I was treated more severely. They wished to keep me shut
+up, but I found means of opening all the fastenings with my teeth; if
+a latch, I lifted it; if a button, I turned it; if a bolt, I pushed it
+aside. I went just where I pleased. The farmer swore, scolded and beat
+me; he became harder on me, and I got to be worse and worse to manage.
+I felt that I had brought all this unhappiness on myself. I compared
+my present miserable life with that I had formerly led among the same
+people; but instead of reforming me, the reflexion made me only more
+headstrong and vicious. One day I went into the kitchen garden and
+eat all the salad; another day I knocked down the little boy who had
+betrayed me; another time, I drank a tub of cream they had placed out
+to be churned. I tramped on their chickens and young turkeys, I bit
+their pigs; in fine, I got so unmanageable that the mistress at last
+asked her husband to sell me at the fair at Mamers, which was to take
+place in fifteen days. I had become a very thin, miserable looking
+object, by reason of blows and poor nourishment. But now, wishing to
+put me in a good condition, (as the farmers say,) that I might sell to
+advantage, everyone on the farm was forbidden to maltreat me. I was
+released from work and was well fed. Very happy indeed was I during
+those fifteen days. My master, at the expiration of that time, took
+me to the fair and sold me for a hundred francs. I longed to give
+him a good bite at parting, but fearing such an act might make a bad
+impression on my new owner, I contented myself with turning my back
+upon him with a gesture of contempt.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+THE LOCKET.
+
+
+I had been bought by the parents of a delicate little girl, aged about
+twelve years, who living in the country and having no friends of her
+own age, was greatly in need of diversion, for the father devoted very
+little time to her, and the mother, though fond of her child, was
+so jealous, she could not bear to see her attached to anything but
+herself, not even animals. The physician having prescribed recreation
+of some kind, the mother decided upon donkey rides. My little mistress
+was named Pauline; she was a very kind, gentle, pretty child, of a sad,
+quiet disposition. She was often sick, but every day when not unwell,
+she went riding, and it was my delight to show her the prettiest paths
+and woods I knew. At first, we were always accompanied by a domestic,
+but when everyone saw what good care I took of her, we were allowed
+to go alone. It was she who called me Cadichon, which name I have ever
+retained.
+
+“Go, take a stroll with Cadichon,” the father would say, “there is no
+danger with a donkey like that, he has the intelligence of a man, and
+he will always bring you safe home.”
+
+So we would go out together. When my little mistress got tired of
+walking, I used to stand near a slight elevation, or rather descend
+into a hollow, that she might mount the more easily. I would also lead
+her up to hazel trees filled with nuts, and stop to let her gather
+them. She loved me much, and expressed it by kind attentions and
+caresses. When bad weather prevented our promenades, she would come to
+the stable, bringing me bread, fresh grass, salad leaves, carrots; she
+would stay a long time, a very long time; and talking to me, though
+believing that I did not understand her, she would tell me all her
+little troubles, often with tears.
+
+“Oh! my poor Cadichon,” she would say, “you are a donkey, and you
+cannot understand me, yet you are my only friend, for it is only to you
+I can say all I think. Mama loves me, but she is jealous, she wants me
+to love nothing but herself. I have no childish friends, and I am so
+lonesome.”
+
+And then she would weep and caress me. I loved her too, and I pitied
+the poor little thing. When she was near me, I was very careful not to
+move, for fear of tramping on her.
+
+One day she came running towards me in the greatest delight.
+
+“Cadichon, Cadichon,” she cried, “mama has given me a locket with her
+hair; I am going to mix some of yours with it, for you too are dear to
+me, and I shall then have the hair of the two I love best in the world.”
+
+She cut off a little of my mane and put it in the locket with her
+mother’s hair.
+
+It made me happy to see how much Pauline loved me and I was proud of
+having my hair in a locket, but I must confess the effect was not very
+pretty; coarse, stiff and grey as my mane was, it made her mother’s
+tress look frightful. Pauline never perceived this, and she was turning
+her locket in every direction, and admiring it extravagantly, when her
+mother entered.
+
+“What are you looking at,” said the mother.
+
+“My locket mama,” answered Pauline concealing it somewhat.
+
+“Why did you bring it here?”
+
+“To show it to Cadichon.”
+
+“What foolishness! Indeed Pauline, you are losing your head with
+Cadichon! as if he could understand anything about a locket with hair!”
+
+“I assure you, mama, he understands very well, he licked my hand
+when—when—”
+
+Here Pauline blushed and was silent.
+
+“Well, why do you not finish? What made Cadichon lick your hand?”
+
+“Mama, I would rather not tell you, I am afraid you will scold me,”
+said Pauline, much embarrassed.
+
+“What is it, at once?” replied her mother impatiently. “Speak, what
+nonsense have you been at now?”
+
+“It is not nonsense, mama, on the contrary—”
+
+“Then why are you afraid to tell me? I suppose you have been giving
+Cadichon oats to make him sick.”
+
+“No, I have given him nothing, on the contrary—”
+
+“On the contrary? You provoke me, Pauline—now listen to me, I wish to
+know what you have been doing here for the last hour nearly.”
+
+And indeed the arrangement of my hair in the locket had been rather
+a long process; it was necessary to take off the paper back of the
+locket, remove the glass, insert the memento of myself, and then put
+the whole together again.
+
+Pauline still hesitated, at last, she said in a very low tone and with
+great embarrassment.
+
+“I cut a little of Cadichon’s mane to—”
+
+“To what?” said her mother impatiently, “finish now, you cut it for
+what?”
+
+“To put it in the locket,” was the very low answer.
+
+“In what locket?” said her mother angrily.
+
+“In the one you gave me.”
+
+“In that I gave you with my hair!” replied the mother with increasing
+anger. “And what have you done with my hair?”
+
+“It is still there, see,” said poor Pauline, displaying the locket.
+
+“My hair mixed with a donkey’s mane!” exclaimed the mother in a rage.
+“Ah! it is too much! You do not deserve the present I gave you! To
+class me with a donkey! To express the same affection for a donkey as
+for me!”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+And snatching the locket from the hands of the unfortunate, stupefied
+Pauline, she dashed it to the ground, trampled it under foot and broke
+it into a thousand pieces. Then without noticing her daughter, she left
+the stable, slamming the door violently.
+
+Pauline surprised and frightened at this outburst of temper, was
+motionless an instant, then breaking into sobs, and throwing herself
+upon my neck, she exclaimed passionately:
+
+“Cadichon, Cadichon, you see how I am treated! They do not want me to
+love you, but I will love you in spite of them, and more than them,
+because you are good to me—you never scold me, you never grieve me,
+and you always try to amuse me in our promenades. Alas! Cadichon, how
+unfortunate that you can neither understand me nor talk to me. Oh! what
+I would tell you!”
+
+Pauline was silent, she throw herself on the ground and continued to
+weep gently. I was touched and distressed at her grief, but I could not
+console her or even let her know that I understood her. I felt enraged
+at this mother, who through stupid or excessive affection, could render
+her child so unhappy. Had it been in my power, I would have told her
+of the grief she caused Pauline, and the injury it did her already
+delicate health, but Alas! I could not speak. I could do nothing but
+look sadly on at the poor child’s flowing tears.
+
+Scarcely a quarter of an hour had elapsed since her mother’s leaving
+the stable, when a servant opened the door and called Pauline.
+
+“Mademoiselle,” said she, “your mama has sent for you, she does not
+wish you to stay in the stable with Cadichon, or even to come here at
+all.”
+
+“Cadichon, my poor Cadichon!” exclaimed Pauline, “they do not wish me
+to see you any more!”
+
+“Only when you go out riding, Mademoiselle, your mama says, the place
+for you is in the parlor, not in the stable.”
+
+Pauline made no answer; she knew her mother exacted obedience, but
+embracing me again, and I felt her tears on my neck as she did so, she
+left the stable to return no more.
+
+From that time Pauline became sadder and more delicate, she coughed,
+she grew pale and thin. The bad weather rendered our promenades shorter
+and less frequent. When we did go however, I was brought up to the
+castle steps, Pauline mounted without saying one word to me, or taking
+any notice of me, but as soon as we were out of sight, she jumped off,
+caressed me, and relieved her heart by recounting her daily troubles
+and griefs, though still thinking I could not understand her. It was
+thus I learned her mama’s continued displeasure since that affair of
+the locket, how Pauline’s life was sadder and more irksome than ever,
+and how the malady from which she suffered was becoming graver every
+day.
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+THE FIRE.
+
+
+Just as I had gone to sleep one evening, I was awakened by cries of
+“fire! fire!” Startled and terrified I endeavored to rid myself of the
+leather strap that held me fast, but in vain did I pull at it, and
+roll on the ground, the strap would not break. At last the happy idea
+occurred to me of cutting it with my teeth, and this I succeeded in
+doing after several efforts. My poor stable was lighted up with the
+reflexion of the fire; the cries, the noise increased; I heard the
+lamentations of the servants, the crash of falling walls, the giving
+way of floors, the roaring of flames; the smoke had already reached my
+stable, and no one thought of me, no one had had charity enough just to
+open my door and let me out. The flames increased in violence, already
+I began to experience a feeling of great heat and suffocation.
+
+“It is all over for me,” said I, “I am condemned to be burned alive!
+what a frightful death! Oh! Pauline, my dear mistress, you have
+forgotten your poor Cadichon!”
+
+Scarcely had I, not pronounced, but thought these words, when my door
+was opened violently, and I heard the terrified voice of Pauline
+calling me. Happy at being saved, I darted towards her, and we were
+just on the threshold, when a frightful crash made us recoil. A
+building directly opposite my stable had tumbled down, and every
+passage was choked up with the ruins; my poor mistress must now perish
+for having attempted to save me! We were nearly suffocated with the
+smoke, the dust of the fallen building, and the heat. Pauline dropped
+down beside me. Suddenly, I took a dangerous resolution, but the
+only one that could save us. Seizing my little mistress’s dress in
+my teeth, she being partly unconscious from fright, I darted across
+the burning beams that strewed the ground. Being fortunate enough to
+get through without her clothing taking fire, I now stopped to see
+whither I must direct my steps; everything around us was in flames.
+Discouraged and almost in despair, I was going to lay Pauline, now
+utterly unconscious, on the ground, when perceiving an open cave; I
+rushed in, (knowing full well that in one of these vaults under the
+castle we were in absolute safety,) and I laid Pauline near a tub of
+water, so that she could bathe her forehead and temples on awaking
+from her swoon. It did not last very long, and when she awoke to
+consciousness and found herself out of danger, she threw herself
+upon her knees, and in a touching prayer thanked God for having so
+mercifully preserved her. Then, after thanking me with a tenderness
+and gratitude quite affecting, she drank a few mouthfuls of water from
+the tub and listened. The fire continued its ravages, everything was
+burning; we still heard a few voices, but so indistinctly that we could
+not recognize them.
+
+“Poor mama and papa!” said Pauline, “they think I have perished in
+disobeying them, by going to Cadichon’s rescue. We must now wait till
+the fire is extinguished. No doubt, we shall spend the night in the
+vault. Good Cadichon!” she added, “I owe my life to you.”
+
+She said no more, but took her seat on an upturned chest, and leaning
+her head upon an empty barrel, was soon asleep. I felt tired and
+hungry, so I drank from the tub, and stretching myself out near the
+door, I was not long in following her example.
+
+I awoke very early. Pauline still slept. I arose softly and went
+to the door, which I opened; everything was burned and the flames
+extinguished, and I saw that one could easily pick his way through
+the ruins to the castle yard. I gave a light hi! han! to awaken my
+mistress, who opened her eyes, and seeing me near the door, she ran
+towards it and gazed around her.
+
+“All burned up! all gone!” said she sadly, “I shall never see the
+castle any more. I shall be dead before it is rebuilt, I feel it; I am
+weak and sick, very sick, although mama says—”
+
+“Come, my Cadichon,” she continued after remaining pensive and
+motionless for a few minutes, “come, let us go now, I must find mama
+and papa to console them, they think me dead.”
+
+She lightly threaded her way among the fallen stones, the crumbled
+walls, the still smoking beams. I followed her, and we soon reached the
+lawn, where she got on my back. Directing my steps towards the village,
+we lost no time in finding the house where her parents had taken
+refuge. Believing their child lost, they were plunged in the deepest
+affliction.
+
+At sight of her, they uttered an exclamation of joy and rushed out to
+clasp her in their arms. She recounted to them with what intelligence
+and courage I had saved her life; but instead of thanking and caressing
+me, the mother surveyed me with an air of indifference, and the father
+never deigned to look at me at all.
+
+“He nearly caused your death, my poor child,” said the mother. “If you
+had not been so foolish as to think of opening the stable, and setting
+him at liberty, your father and I would not have passed such a night of
+desolation.”
+
+“But,” said Pauline earnestly, “it is he who—”
+
+“Hush, hush,” replied the mother interrupting her, “say no more to me
+about this animal which I detest, for he has almost caused your death.”
+
+Pauline sighed, looked sorrowfully at me and was silent.
+
+From that day I never saw her more. The terrible fright, the fatigue of
+a night passed out of bed, but especially the low temperature of the
+vault, all increased the disease from which she had suffered a long
+time. In the morning she was taken with a fever that never left her.
+The chill of the preceding night finished what sadness and weariness
+had commenced; her chest already weak, could not stand the shock, and
+she died at the end of a month, neither regretting life nor fearing
+death. She often spoke of me and called me in her delirium. No one
+thought of me now. I ate what I could find, and I slept unsheltered in
+cold and rain. When I saw the coffin which contained the body of my
+poor, little mistress carried out of the house, my grief was so intense
+that I left that part of the country, and have never been there since.
+
+[Illustration: She was taken with a fever.—(Page 50.)]
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+THE DONKEY RACE.
+
+
+I lived miserably on account of the season, for the home I had selected
+was in a forest where I could scarcely find the wherewith to keep me
+from dying of hunger and thirst. When the streams were frozen I ate
+snow, my only nourishment was got by nibbling thistles, my only shelter
+the pines. How often did I not compare my present sad existence with
+that I had led at my good master George’s, and even at the farmer’s
+to whom he had sold me, until I gave myself up to idleness, mischief
+and revenge. However, there were no means of improving my miserable
+condition, for I was determined to remain free, and master of my
+actions. Sometimes, by way of recreation, I went to the outskirts of
+a village very near the forest, to find out what was going on in the
+world. One day, it was Springtime (and the fine weather had set in,) I
+was surprised to notice that something extraordinary was going on, the
+village wore a festive air, people went in throngs, every one arrayed
+in his or her holiday garments, and what was still more astonishing,
+all the donkeys of a neighboring county were collected there, curried
+and rubbed, carrying neither panier nor saddle, some even having
+flowers on their head or around their neck, and every one accompanied
+by a master, leading him by a bridle.
+
+“This is singular,” thought I, “there is no fair going on to-day! What
+can all my comrades be doing here, curried and decorated? And how fat
+they are! they have certainly been well fed this winter!”
+
+As I mentally ejaculated these words, I looked at myself; my back, my
+belly, my crest were thin and rough, and the hair all over my body
+standing awry, but I felt strong and vigorous.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“I would rather be homely,” thought I, “but healthy and active; none of
+my comrades here, so handsome, fat and well cared for, could support
+the fatigues and privations I have endured all winter.” As I drew near
+to ascertain the meaning of this re-union of donkeys, one of the boys
+in charge of them, perceiving me, began to laugh.
+
+“Come boys, come see the beautiful donkey that has just arrived! How
+well curried he is!” cried he.
+
+“And well fed and cared for,” said another. “Has he come for the race?”
+
+“If he has, let him run,” cried a third, “there is no danger of his
+gaining the prize.”
+
+A general laugh followed these words. Though displeased at the boys’
+stupid jokes, my vexation was tempered by the satisfaction of having
+learned what all the commotion meant. There was to be a race, but when
+or how? Wishing to know more, I continued to listen, though apparently
+understanding nothing of what was said.
+
+“Are they going to start soon?” inquired one of the young men.
+
+“I do not know, they are waiting for the Mayor.”
+
+“Where is the race course?” said a good woman who had just arrived.
+
+“In the big meadow by the mill, mother Tranchet,” answered John.
+
+“How many donkeys are there here now?”
+
+“There are sixteen not counting you, mother Tranchet.” A burst of
+laughter followed this jest.
+
+“Ah! you are a scamp!” said mother Tranchet laughing, “and what does
+the winner of the race get?”
+
+“Honor first, and a silver watch next.”
+
+“I would be well pleased to be a donkey for the sake of gaining the
+watch; I have never had the money to buy a watch.”
+
+“Well, if you had brought a donkey you would have to run—the chance.”
+
+And all laughed their heartiest.
+
+“Where do you suppose I would get a donkey? Have I ever had the means
+to buy one, or to feed one after buying it.”
+
+This good woman pleased me greatly she had such a cheerful, lively air;
+and the idea struck me of trying to win her the watch. I was accustomed
+to running, for every day in the woods I took long runs to warm myself,
+and I had formerly enjoyed the reputation of running as long and as
+swiftly as a horse.
+
+“Come,” said I to myself, “let’s try; if I do not win, I lose nothing;
+if I do win, I shall gain a watch for mother Tranchet, who greatly
+desires it.”
+
+Starting off at a little trot, I took my place beside the last mule,
+and assuming a proud air I began to bray vigorously.
+
+“Stop! stop!” exclaimed Andrew, “will you stop that music? Get away
+donkey, you are without a master, you are too badly curried, you can’t
+run.”
+
+I held my peace, but did not budge. Some laughed, some were vexed, and
+they were beginning to contend among themselves, when mother Tranchet
+exclaimed:
+
+“Well, if he has no master, he is going to have a mistress; I recognize
+him now. It is Cadichon, poor Miss Pauline’s donkey; they drove him off
+when the poor, little thing was no longer there to protect him, and I
+firmly believe he has lived all winter in the woods, for no one has
+seen him since. I take him to-day into my service; he is going to run
+for me.”
+
+“It is Cadichon!” cried several in various directions. “I have heard of
+this famous Cadichon.”
+
+[Illustration: “Here is my money.”—(Page 59.)]
+
+“But mother Tranchet,” said John, “if he is going to run for you, you
+must drop a silver piece of fifty centimes in the Mayor’s bag, just
+like everybody else.”
+
+“That shall not hinder me, my children, here is my money,” she added,
+untying a knot in her handkerchief, “but don’t ask any more, for I
+haven’t it.”
+
+“Ah well! if your donkey wins you will not lose anything, for all the
+village has contributed to this bag, it contains more than a hundred
+francs.”
+
+I approached mother Tranchet, and I whirled on my heel, leaped and
+kicked with such facility, that the boys began to fear I might win the
+day.
+
+“Listen, John,” said Andrew in an undertone, “you were wrong to let
+mother Tranchet contribute to the bag. That gives her a right to let
+Cadichon run, and he has such a nimble air, I fear he may win the watch
+and money.”
+
+“Ah bah! how silly you are! Don’t you see there what a figure this poor
+Cadichon cuts! He is going to make us laugh, he’ll not go far indeed.”
+
+“I can’t say, suppose I coax him off with some oats.”
+
+“And what of mother Tranchet’s money?”
+
+“Her donkey gone, the money would be returned to her.”
+
+“I agree; Cadichon is no more to her, than to you or me. Get some oats
+and try to coax him off without mother Tranchet’s knowledge.”
+
+I had heard and understood all; so when Andrew returned with the oats
+in his apron, instead of approaching him, I drew near mother Tranchet,
+who was talking with her friends. Andrew followed; John thinking I had
+not seen the oats, took me by the ears and made me turn my head. Still
+I would not budge, notwithstanding my longing to taste such a luxury.
+Andrew began to push, John, to pull me, and I to bray in my loudest
+voice. Mother Tranchet turned, and seeing the manœuvres of Andrew and
+John:
+
+“Boys,” said she, “you are not doing right there. Since you made me
+deposit my silver piece in the bag, you must not take Cadichon off. It
+appears to me that you are afraid of him.”
+
+“Afraid! afraid of a dirty donkey like that! Oh! no, we have no fears
+of him,” said Andrew.
+
+“Then why would you try to lead him off?”
+
+“To give him some oats.”
+
+“Ah! that’s a different thing!” replied mother Tranchet in a sportive
+way, “you are very obliging, just pour the oats on the ground so that
+he can eat them at his ease! And to think that I suspected you of
+giving them to him from malice! How one can be mistaken.”
+
+Andrew and John were ashamed and vexed, but they took good care to
+conceal it. Their companions laughed to see them so nicely caught,
+mother Tranchet clapped her hands, and as for me, I was delighted,
+eating my oats with avidity, and feeling a renewal of strength as I
+did so. I was quite pleased with mother Tranchet also. Having finished
+eating, I was impatient to start. At last there was a great tumult, the
+Mayor had just ordered us to be ranged in line. I modestly took the
+last place. My appearance alone, without a master, was the signal for a
+general inquiry as to who I was, and to whom I belonged.
+
+“To no one,” said Andrew.
+
+“To me,” cried mother Tranchet.
+
+“It is necessary to contribute to the bag, mother Tranchet,” said the
+Mayor.
+
+“I have done so, Mr. Mayor.”
+
+“Good; write mother Tranchet’s name,” said the Mayor.
+
+“It is already down, sir,” replied the secretary.
+
+“Very well,” said the Mayor. “Is everything ready? One, two, three!
+Start!”
+
+At this the boys suddenly released the donkeys they were holding,
+giving them a smart blow of the whip at the same time. All started. No
+one had held me, and as I honestly awaited my turn all the others had a
+slight advantage over me. But we had not gone more than a hundred steps
+ere I reached them. Behold me now at the head of the band, outstripping
+them, indeed, without overtaxing myself to do so. The boys halloed and
+cracked their whips to urge on their own. I glanced back occasionally
+to see their disconcerted visages, to contemplate my triumph and laugh
+at their efforts. My companions, furious at being distanced by me—a
+poor, unknown, piteous looking creature—redoubled their efforts to
+overtake me, and endeavored to block the road, one against another.
+I heard behind me savage cries, kicks, bites. Twice was I reached,
+almost passed, by John’s donkey. Perhaps I ought to have employed the
+same means against him that he had used in outstripping his companions;
+but I disdained such unworthy manœuvres. I saw, however, that not to
+be beaten it was necessary to do my utmost. With a vigorous bound,
+I dashed ahead of my rival, who at the same moment seized me by the
+tail. So great was the pain that I almost dropped down on the spot;
+but the thought of victory inspired me with courage to snatch myself
+away, leaving a piece of my tail in his mouth. The desire of vengeance
+gave me wings. I ran with such speed that not only did I reach the
+goal first, but far, far ahead of all my rivals. I was breathless,
+exhausted, but happy and triumphant, reveling amidst the applause of
+thousands of spectators who thronged the fields. With a victor’s pride
+I walked up to the tribunal of the Mayor, who was to bestow the prize.
+Good mother Tranchet also advanced, caressing and promising me a fine
+repast of oats. She extended her hand for the watch and silver which
+the Mayor was about to give her, when Andrew and John, running in
+breathless haste, exclaimed:
+
+“Stop, Mr. Mayor, stop; it is not right, that. No one knows this
+donkey. Mother Tranchet has no right to the prize. This donkey does not
+count; it was mine and John’s donkeys that beat; the watch and money
+belong to us.”
+
+“Did not mother Tranchet contribute to the race?”
+
+“Yes, Mr. Mayor, but—”
+
+[Illustration: My rival seized me by the tail.—(Page 62.)]
+
+“Was there any opposition when she did so?”
+
+“No, Mr. Mayor, but—”
+
+“Did you oppose it at the moment of departure?”
+
+“No, Mr. Mayor, but—”
+
+“Then mother Tranchet’s donkey has really won the watch and money.”
+
+“Mr. Mayor, assemble the municipal council to decide this question; you
+have no right to decide alone.”
+
+The Mayor hesitated. Seeing this, I abruptly seized the watch and
+bag with my teeth and put them in the hands of mother Tranchet, who,
+anxious and trembling, awaited the Mayor’s decision.
+
+This act of intelligence put every one on our side and covered me with
+applause.
+
+“Behold the question decided by the victor in favor of mother
+Tranchet,” said the Mayor, laughing. “Gentlemen of the municipal
+council, at table we will deliberate upon my allowing justice to be
+decided by a donkey. Friends,” added he, casting a mischievous glance
+at Andrew and John, “in my opinion the greatest donkey among us is not
+that of mother Tranchet.”
+
+“Bravo! bravo! Mr. Mayor!” arose from every side. And all laughed
+except Andrew and John, who went off shaking their fists at me.
+
+And as to myself, was I pleased? No, my pride revolted; the Mayor had
+insulted me in calling my enemies donkeys. It was ungrateful and base
+to do so. I had displayed courage, forbearance, patience, intelligence,
+and this was my recompense! Having insulted, they abandoned me. Even
+mother Tranchet, in her joy at getting a watch and a purse of a hundred
+and thirty-five francs, forgot her benefactor and thought no more of
+the promised repast of oats, but departed with the crowd, leaving me
+minus the reward I so truly deserved!
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+GOOD MASTERS.
+
+
+Left sad and solitary in the field, and suffering from my bitten tail,
+I was just wondering to myself if donkeys were not better than men,
+when I felt a soft hand caress me, and heard a voice not less gentle,
+saying:
+
+“Poor thing! they have been unkind to you, come, poor beast, come go
+home to grandma’s, she will feed and care for you better than your
+wicked masters! Poor donkey! how thin you are!”
+
+Turning round, I saw a pretty little boy about five years old, his
+sister apparently three, and the nurse.
+
+“James,” said Ruth, “what are you saying to this poor donkey?”
+
+“I told it to come home to grandma’s, it is all alone, poor beast!”
+
+“Yes, James, take him; wait, I am going to get on his back. Nurse,
+nurse, put me on the donkey’s back.”
+
+The nurse put the little girl on my back; James wished to lead me, but
+had no bridle.
+
+[Illustration: I seized the watch and bag with my teeth.—(Page 65.)]
+
+“Wait nurse,” said he, “I am going to tie my handkerchief around his
+neck.”
+
+Little James tried to do so, but my neck was much too large for his
+small handkerchief; the nurse gave him hers and it was too small.
+
+“What shall I do nurse?” said he, ready to cry.
+
+“We must get a halter or rope from the village. Come, my little Ruth,
+get down.”
+
+“No,” said Ruth, clinging to my neck, “I want to stay on the donkey, I
+want him to take me home.”
+
+“But you have nothing to lead him with; you see he won’t move any more
+than if he were a stone.”
+
+“Wait nurse, yes he will, I know his name, it is Cadichon, mother
+Tranchet told me so, I am going to pet and coax him, and I believe he
+will follow me.”
+
+James came up to me and whispered in my ear. “Go my nice Cadichon,
+please go.”
+
+This dear little boy’s confidence touched me, I noticed with pleasure,
+that instead of asking for a stick to make me go, he had thought only
+of kind and gentle means. So, scarcely had he finished his words and
+the accompanying caresses, ere I began to move.
+
+“You see nurse, he understands me, he loves me,” exclaimed James, his
+cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling with joy, as he ran a little in
+advance to show me the way.
+
+“As if a donkey could understand anything! he goes because he is tired
+of standing here.”
+
+“But nurse, he follows me, you see.”
+
+“Because he smells the bread in your pocket.”
+
+“Do you think he is hungry, nurse?”
+
+“Very likely, you see how thin he is.”
+
+“Yes he is, poor Cadichon, and for me not to think of giving him my
+bread.”
+
+And taking from his pocket the piece of bread intended for his
+luncheon, he offered it to me.
+
+I was offended at the nurse’s unkind suggestion, and delighted with
+an opportunity of proving that she had judged me harshly, I followed
+James and carried Ruth on my back, not from interest at all, but from
+civility and courtesy.
+
+I refused the offered bread, and contented myself with licking James’s
+hand.
+
+“Nurse, look! look! he licks my hand,” exclaimed James. “He does not
+want the bread. Oh! my dear, nice Cadichon, how I love you! You see
+now nurse, that he follows me because he loves me, and not to get the
+bread.”
+
+“So much the better for you, if you can believe you have a donkey
+like one nobody else ever saw, a model donkey. I know they are all
+headstrong and vicious, and for my part, I do not like them.”
+
+“Oh nurse, poor Cadichon is not vicious, see how good he is to me.”
+
+“And how long will it all last?”
+
+“My Cadichon, you will always be good to me and Ruth, won’t you?” said
+James, caressing me.
+
+I turned towards him with such a look of affection, that in spite of
+his tender years, he noticed it; then I cast upon the nurse such a
+furious glance that she likewise observed it, for she said immediately:
+
+“What a wicked eye! and defiant air! he looks at me as if he wanted to
+devour me!”
+
+“Oh nurse,” replied James, “how can you say that? he looks at me with
+such a gentle air, as if he wished to embrace me.”
+
+Both were right, and I had not been misunderstood. I promised myself to
+be gentle and good to James, Ruth, and all on the place who would be
+kind to me, and I also made the wicked resolution, of being spiteful
+and vicious to those who would maltreat or insult me, as the nurse
+had done. This desire of vengeance, was eventually to cause me much
+unhappiness.
+
+Talking as they went, we kept on and soon reached their grandmother’s
+residence.
+
+They left me at the door, where I stood quietly, like a well behaved
+donkey, not even nibbling the grass that bordered the gravel walks.
+
+In two minutes, James re-appeared, accompanied by his grandmother.
+
+“Come see, grandma, come see how gentle he is, and how he loves me. Do
+not believe nurse, I beg you,” said James clasping his hands.
+
+“No, grandma, don’t believe it, I entreat you not to believe it,”
+repeated Ruth.
+
+“Let us see,” said the grandmother smiling, “let us see this famous
+donkey.”
+
+And coming up to me, she touched me, she caressed me, she took hold of
+my ears, put her hand to my mouth, I stood very quietly, making not the
+slightest attempt to bite her, or even get away from her.
+
+“He seems to be very gentle,” she said, “how could you say, Emily, that
+he had a wicked look?”
+
+“Isn’t he good, grandma, isn’t he? and mustn’t we keep him?” said James.
+
+“My dear little one, I believe he is very good; but how can we keep
+him, since he is not ours? He must be taken back to his master.”
+
+“He has no master, grandma.”
+
+“We are sure he has no master, grandma,” replied Ruth, who always
+repeated her brother’s words.
+
+“How is that, it is impossible.”
+
+“It is true, grandma, mother Tranchet told me.”
+
+“Then how did he gain the race prize for her? Since he ran for her, she
+must have borrowed him from some one.”
+
+“No, Grandma, he came all alone, and wanted to run with the others.
+Mother Tranchet paid the risk, but she does not own him, he belongs to
+nobody, it is Cadichon, whose mistress, poor Pauline died; her parents
+drove him off, and he has lived all winter in the woods.”
+
+“Cadichon! the famous Cadichon who saved his little mistress from the
+fire? Ah! I am very glad to know him; he is truly an extraordinary and
+admirable donkey.”
+
+And she walked around me, regarding me attentively. Proud to see my
+reputation so well established, I reared my head, inflated my nostrils
+and shook my mane.
+
+“Oh! how thin he is! Poor beast! his devotion met with little
+recompense,” said the grandmother in a serious manner and tone of
+reproach. “We will keep him, my child, we will keep him, since he has
+been abandoned and driven off by those who ought to have cared for and
+loved him. Call Bouland to put him in the stable and give him a good
+bed.”
+
+James, delighted, ran to get Bouland, who came immediately.
+
+“Bouland, here is a donkey the children have brought home; take him to
+the stable and feed and water him,” said the grandmother.
+
+“Must he then be taken to his master?” said Bouland.
+
+“No; he has no master. It appears that he is the famous Cadichon that
+was driven off after the death of his little mistress. He came to the
+village and my little children found him abandoned in the field. They
+brought him home and we are going to keep him.”
+
+“And madam does well to keep him; there is not his equal in all the
+country. I have heard most wonderful things about him. They say he
+hears and understands all that is said to him. Let us try him, madam.
+Come, Cadichon, come get some oats.”
+
+I immediately turned and followed Bouland.
+
+“It is astonishing,” said the grandmother; “he really understood.”
+
+And she went in the house, but James and Ruth accompanied me to the
+stable. I was placed in a stall, my companions being two horses and a
+donkey. Bouland, assisted by James, made me a good bed, and then went
+to get my oats.
+
+“More, more, Bouland; I beg you to give him more,” said James; “he
+needs a hearty meal, he has run so hard.”
+
+“But, Master James, if you give him too many oats he will get so lively
+that you and Miss Ruth can’t ride him.”
+
+“Oh! he is such a good donkey, I know we can ride him all the same.”
+
+They gave me an enormous quantity of oats and put a bucket of water
+beside me. Being thirsty, I first drank a little and then attacked my
+oats, meanwhile congratulating myself upon having fallen into the hands
+of this good little James. I also made some reflections upon mother
+Tranchet’s ingratitude. Then devouring my bundle of hay, I lay down on
+my straw, and, couched like a king, I slept.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+CADICHON SICK.
+
+
+My only employment next morning was to take the children riding an
+hour. James himself got me my oats, and in spite of Bouland’s warning,
+he gave me enough to feed three donkeys my size. I ate all that was
+given me; I was happy. But on the third day I felt sick, I had fever,
+and both head and stomach seemed affected; I could eat neither hay nor
+oats, but remained extended upon the straw.
+
+“Here is Cadichon not up yet,” said James coming to see me. “Come,
+Cadichon, it is time to rise, I am going to give you your oats.”
+
+I endeavored to rise but my head fell back heavily upon the straw.
+
+“Oh! Cadichon is sick,” exclaimed little James, “Bouland, Bouland, come
+quick, Cadichon is sick!”
+
+“How is that,” said Bouland, “he ate his breakfast this morning?”
+
+Going up to the trough, Bouland looked in and said:
+
+“He is sick, he has not touched his oats—his ears are warm,” added he,
+taking hold of my ears, “and his side beats.”
+
+“What does that mean, Bouland?” exclaimed poor James, in great alarm.
+
+“It means master James, that Cadichon has a fever, you have fed him too
+high, we must get the veterinary.”
+
+“What is a veterinary?” asked James, still more alarmed.
+
+“It is a horse doctor. You see, master James, I told you right. The
+poor beast suffered this winter from hunger and want of shelter, (you
+can tell by looking at him, see the color of his hair and how lean he
+is,) then he got very much heated running at the race. He ought to have
+had a few oats, and some grass to strengthen him, but you have given
+him just as many oats as he could eat.”
+
+“Oh! my poor Cadichon! he is going to die, and it is my fault!” said
+James with a sob.
+
+“No, master James, he is not going to die this time, but he must be
+bled and put out on grass.”
+
+“Oh! but it will hurt so to bleed him,” said James, all in tears.
+
+“Not this bleeding; you will see, for I am going to bleed him at once,
+whilst waiting for the veterinary.”
+
+“I don’t want to see, I don’t want to see,” cried James, running away,
+“I am sure it will hurt him.”
+
+Bouland took his lancet, placed it on a vein in my neck, struck it a
+slight blow with a hammer, and the blood gushed out immediately. As the
+blood flowed, I began to feel better, my head became less heavy, and I
+was relieved of oppression; I was soon able to rise. Bouland stopped
+the blood and gave me some bran water, and in about an hour led me into
+the field. I was better but not well, and nearly eight days elapsed
+before I entirely recovered. Meanwhile, James and Ruth loaded me with
+such kindness and attentions as I shall never forget. They came to see
+me several times a day; they gathered grass and held it up to my mouth,
+that I might be spared the trouble of bending my head to browse; they
+brought me garden salad, cabbage and carrots; every evening they led
+me into the stable themselves, to find the trough full of my favorite
+dainty, potato pickings with salt. One day, dear little James wanted to
+give me his pillow, because, he said, my head was too low when I slept.
+Another time Ruth wished to lend me her coverlet, to keep me warm at
+night, and again, they wrapped my legs with pieces of woolen stuff, for
+fear of my taking cold. I was distressed at not being able to express
+my gratitude, for I had the misfortune of understanding everything,
+without the power of uttering a word. I got well at last, and soon
+after my recovery, learned that James and Ruth with several of their
+cousins, were getting up a donkey party to the woods.
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+THE ROBBERS.
+
+
+The children were assembled in the yard, and with them were many
+donkeys from the neighboring villages. I recognized nearly all of the
+latter as my rivals at the race. John’s donkey eyed me savagely, whilst
+I, in return, bestowed upon him most insulting glances. Nearly all
+the grandchildren of James’s grandmother were there: Maud, Beatrice,
+Elizabeth, Helen, Ruth, William, Henry, Louis and James. All the mammas
+were to accompany them on donkeys, whilst the papas went on foot and
+armed with switches to keep the lazy animals moving. Before starting,
+there was as usual in such cases, a slight contention as to who should
+have the best animal; everybody wanted me, no one was willing to give
+up, so it was at last decided to draw lots. I fell to the lot of little
+Louis, James’s cousin; he was an excellent child, and I would have been
+well satisfied had I not seen poor little James’s unsuccessful efforts
+to hide his tears. Every time he looked at me they would flow afresh.
+I felt very sorry, but was unable to comfort him; however, it was
+necessary for him as well as myself to learn resignation and patience.
+With manly resolution he mounted his donkey, saying to Louis as he did
+so:
+
+“I will keep near you, Louis; don’t make Cadichon gallop too fast, or I
+will be behind.”
+
+“And why would you remain behind? why not gallop like me?”
+
+“Because Cadichon gallops faster than any other donkey in the country.”
+
+“How do you know?”
+
+“Because I saw him run for the prize the day of the donkey race at the
+village, and he was far ahead of all the others.”
+
+Louis promised his cousin not to go too fast, and we both started off
+in a trot. My companion was no laggard, so I had to restrain myself but
+little that we might keep together. The others following, some briskly,
+some tardily, we thus reached the forest where stood the very beautiful
+ruins of an old convent and chapel that the children were anxious to
+see. The place bore an evil reputation throughout the country, and
+no one liked to go there except in large companies. At night, it was
+said, strange noises were heard issuing from the ruins, groans, cries,
+the clinking of chains; and several travelers who laughed at these
+accounts, and went to visit the spot alone, never returned and were
+never afterwards heard of.
+
+Every one dismounted, and when we had been turned loose to graze with
+the bridle over our heads, the papas and mammas took their children
+by the hand to prevent their straying off or lagging behind, and much
+to my anxiety the whole party was soon lost to sight amid the ruins.
+I likewise left my companions, and screened myself from the sun under
+a half-ruined arch, upon a declivity beside the woods, and a little
+farther distant than the convent. I had scarcely been there a quarter
+of an hour when I heard a noise near the arch. Crouching in a recess of
+the ruined wall, where unperceived, I could see all around, I listened.
+The noise, though dull, increased; it seemed to be underground.
+
+Not many minutes and I saw a man’s head cautiously peering up amidst
+the bushes.
+
+“Nothing,” said he in a low tone, looking all around. “No one—you may
+come, comrades. Every one is to take a donkey and lead him carefully.”
+
+He then moved out of the way to allow passage to about a dozen men.
+
+“If the donkeys escape,” said he, in an undertone, “don’t amuse
+yourselves running after them. Quick, and no noise, that is the order.”
+
+Creeping through the woods, which were very thick just there, the men
+moved cautiously but quickly. The donkeys seeking shade, were browsing
+upon the grass at the edge of the forest. At a given signal, every
+robber caught a donkey by his bridle and led him into the thicket.
+Instead of resisting, struggling and braying to give the alarm, these
+donkeys allowed themselves to be taken as passively as if they were
+sheep. Five minutes after the robbers had reached the thicket at the
+foot of the arch. One by one my comrades were led into the bushes,
+whence they disappeared. I heard the noise of their footsteps under
+ground, then all was silent.
+
+“Here,” thought I, “is an explanation of the mysterious noises that
+have frightened the country, a band of robbers concealed in the convent
+vaults. They must be taken, but how? that’s the difficulty.”
+
+I remained concealed in my recess (whence I had a fine view of the
+entire convent ruins, and the surrounding country), and did not stir
+until I heard the voices of the children seeking their donkeys. Then I
+ran forward to prevent their going too near the arch and thicket, so
+skilfully concealing the entrance to the vaults that it was impossible
+to perceive them.
+
+“There is Cadichon!” exclaimed Louis.
+
+“But where are the others?” said all the children at once.
+
+“They must be near,” said Louis’s papa.
+
+“We had better seek them by the ravine behind the arch; the grass there
+is fine, and they have probably wished to taste it.”
+
+Trembling at thoughts of the danger they incurred, I rushed from the
+side of the arch to prevent their passing. They endeavored to make me
+move, but I resisted so stoutly, barring the passage whichever way they
+attempted to go, that Louis’s papa stopped his brother-in-law and said
+to him:
+
+“Listen, there is something very extraordinary about Cadichon’s
+behavior. You know what is said of this animal’s intelligence. Listen
+to me, and let us turn back. Besides, it is not likely that all the
+donkeys would be on the other side of the ruins.”
+
+“You are right,” answered James’s papa, “and I perceive the grass
+around the arch pressed down as if it had been recently trampled upon.
+No doubt our donkeys have been stolen.”
+
+They returned towards the mammas, who had kept the children with them,
+and I followed with a light heart, happy at having probably averted a
+terrible calamity. They talked low, and I perceived that they got close
+together.
+
+“How shall we manage this?” said Louis’s mamma, when they had called me
+up. “One donkey can’t carry all these children.”
+
+“Put the smallest on Cadichon, and let the rest follow with us,” said
+James’s mamma.
+
+“Come, Cadichon, let us see how many you can carry,” said Helen’s mamma.
+
+Ruth being the smallest, was put in front, then Helen, then James, then
+Louis. The whole four were not heavy, and wishing to show that I could
+carry them without the least fatigue, I set off in a trot.
+
+“Not so fast, Cadichon!” cried the papas, “gently, so we can hold on to
+those on your back.”
+
+I changed my gait to a walk, and proceeded, surrounded by the larger
+children and the mammas, the papas following to assist those that were
+disposed to lag behind.
+
+“Mamma, why didn’t papa hunt for our donkeys?” said Henry, who was the
+youngest of the band, and found the way long.
+
+“Because your papa thinks they have been stolen, and it would be
+useless to seek them.”
+
+“Stolen! who stole them? I saw nobody.”
+
+“Nor did I, but there were traces of footsteps around the arch.”
+
+“But then, mamma, he ought to have hunted for the robbers,” said
+William.
+
+“That would have been very imprudent, as there must have been several
+men, to have taken thirteen donkeys. They were probably armed, and
+would have killed or wounded your papas.”
+
+“Armed, mamma!” said William.
+
+“Yes, with clubs, knives, perhaps pistols.”
+
+“Oh! how very dangerous! Papa was right to return with my uncles!”
+exclaimed Maud.
+
+“We must hasten home, for your papa and uncles are going to the village
+after our return.”
+
+“Why, mamma?” asked William.
+
+“To warn the guards, and try to recover the donkeys.”
+
+“I am sorry we went to see the ruins,” said Maud.
+
+“Why?” replied Beatrice, “they were beautiful.”
+
+“Yes, but it was very dangerous. Suppose the robbers had captured us
+instead of the donkeys?”
+
+“That would have been impossible! there were too many of us,” said
+Elizabeth.
+
+“But there must have been a number of robbers,” was Maud’s reply.
+
+“We would all have fought them,” said Elizabeth.
+
+“With what? we had only a stick.”
+
+“And our feet, our fists, our teeth; I would have scratched them to
+death; I would have torn their eyes out!”
+
+“And the robbers would have killed you, that’s all,” said William.
+
+“Killed me! and papa and mamma there! do you suppose they would have
+allowed the robbers to carry me off or kill me?”
+
+“The robbers would have killed them too, and before they killed you,”
+answered Beatrice.
+
+“Do you think, then, that there was an army of robbers?”
+
+“There could not have been less than a dozen.”
+
+“A dozen? what nonsense! do you believe that robbers always go in
+dozens, like oysters?”
+
+“You are always making fun of whatever is said to you! I say that to
+carry off thirteen donkeys, there must have been at least twelve men.”
+
+“I bet so myself, and the thirteenth was to make good measure, like
+little pies.”
+
+The mammas, and the other children laughed at this conversation, until
+it turned into dispute; then Elizabeth’s mamma bade her be silent, and
+said that Beatrice was probably correct as to the number of robbers.
+
+We were not long in reaching the house, and great was the surprise
+of all there, to see the party returning on foot, and me, Cadichon,
+carrying four children. But when the papas recounted the disappearance
+of the donkeys, and my persistency in not allowing any one to approach
+the arch, all shook their heads, and gave vent to a multitude of
+most singular suppositions; some said the donkeys had been swallowed
+up by demons; others, that the religious buried in the chapel had
+seized them to ride all over with them; and others again, that the
+angels guarding the convent, reduced to dust and ashes every animal
+approaching too near the cemetery where the souls of the religious
+wandered. Not one suggested the idea of robbers concealed in the vaults.
+
+Immediately on their return, the three papas acquainted the grandmother
+with the probable theft of their donkeys, after which the horses were
+put to the carriage, and they went to lay their complaint before the
+authorities of the neighboring town. In two hours they returned with an
+officer and six guards. Such was my reputation for intelligence, that
+the gravest suspicions were based upon my resistance to the attempted
+passage of the arch. The guards were armed with pistols and carbines,
+ready to take the field. However, they accepted the grandmother’s
+invitation to dinner, and sat down to the table with the ladies and
+gentlemen.
+
+
+
+
+XIII.
+
+THE VAULTS.
+
+
+The dinner was not long, for the soldiers were anxious to make their
+inspection before night. They asked the grandmother’s permission to
+take me with them.
+
+“He will be very useful in our expedition, madam,” said the officer.
+“This Cadichon is not an ordinary donkey; he has already accomplished
+more difficult things than we are going to require of him.”
+
+“Take him, if you think it necessary, but do not fatigue him too
+much, I beg of you. The poor beast made that journey this morning and
+returned with four of my grandchildren on his back.”
+
+“Oh, as to that, madam, you may be perfectly easy; be sure we will
+treat him as kindly as possible.”
+
+Having eaten and drunk, my dinner being a peck of oats, an armful of
+salad, carrots and other vegetables, with a bucket of water, I was
+ready to start. When they came to take me, I placed myself at the
+head and they all followed—a donkey guiding soldiers! They did not
+seem vexed at this, however, for they were all good men. Soldiers are
+generally considered rough and harsh, but I assure you they are just
+the contrary; no people in the world are kinder, none more charitable,
+patient and generous than these same military men. Whilst on the road
+they took every imaginable care of me, relaxing their pace when they
+thought me fatigued, and proposing to let me drink at every stream we
+crossed.
+
+It was nearly night when we reached the convent. Fearing their horses
+might be a disadvantage, they had been left at a village near the
+forest. The officer now gave orders for the men to follow all my
+movements and to keep together. Without hesitation I led them to the
+entrance of the arch overgrown with bushes, and whence I had seen the
+twelve robbers issue.
+
+With the greatest anxiety, I saw that they remained there. To get them
+away I went a few steps behind the wall; they followed and I returned
+to the bushes, preventing them from returning also, by barring the way
+whenever they attempted a step in that direction. They understood me
+and remained concealed along the wall.
+
+I then approached the entrance to the vaults, and began to bray with
+all the strength of my lungs. I was not long in attaining my object.
+All my imprisoned comrades responded vigorously. I made a step towards
+the soldiers, who divined my manœuvres, and I returned to the entrance
+of the vaults, where I began to bray again. This time there was no
+answer, and I suspected that the robbers to prevent my comrades’
+braying had tied stones to their tails. Everybody knows that on braying
+we raise our tails, and not being able to raise their tails, because of
+the weight of the stones, my comrades held their peace.
+
+I remained about two steps from the entrance. Soon a man’s head
+cautiously peered up amidst the bushes. Looking all around and seeing
+no one but myself:
+
+“Ah!” said he, “here is the knave we missed this morning. You will
+rejoin your companions, my brayer.”
+
+As he was about to seize me, I retreated a couple of steps, he
+followed, I still kept out of his reach, until I had brought him to
+the angle of the wall, behind which my friends, the soldiers, were
+concealed.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Before he had time to utter a cry even, they had seized, gagged, and
+bound and extended him on the ground. I returned to the entrance and
+brayed again, not doubting but this would bring another to see what
+had become of his companion. And sure enough, I soon heard a slight
+movement among the bushes, and saw a new head looking around with
+the same precaution. Not being able to reach me, the second robber
+did precisely as the first. I executed the same manœuvre, and he was
+in the soldiers’ hands before he had time to know what had happened.
+I proceeded thus, until six were taken. After the sixth, I brayed in
+vain; no one appeared. I suppose, noticing that their companions did
+not return, the robbers began to suspect a trap and determined to run
+no more risks.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Meanwhile, night had set in and we could scarcely see. The officer sent
+one of his men for reinforcements to attack the robbers in their cave,
+and to take away in a vehicle, the six prisoners bound and gagged. The
+remaining soldiers were divided into two bands to guard the convent
+outlets; as for me, receiving many caresses and unbounded compliments,
+I was allowed to follow my own inclinations.
+
+“If he were not a donkey,” said one soldier, “he would merit the cross.”
+
+“Hasn’t he one on his back?” said another.
+
+“Hush that,” said a third, “its a poor joke; you know very well that
+this cross is marked upon their backs to remind us that one of their
+number had once the honor of carrying our Lord Jesus Christ.”
+
+“That’s why it is a cross of honor,” was the answer.
+
+“Silence,” said the officer in an undertone, “Cadichon pricks up his
+ears.”
+
+I indeed heard an extraordinary noise from beneath the arch, it was not
+the sound of footsteps, but rather that of stifled cries and a sort of
+crackling. The soldiers likewise heard it, but could not divine the
+cause. At last a thick smoke was seen issuing from the air holes and
+lower windows of the convent, tongues of flame leaped out, and in a few
+minutes all was on fire.
+
+“They have set fire to the vaults, so they can escape by the doors,”
+said the officer.
+
+“It must be extinguished, lieutenant,” replied a soldier.
+
+“Be very careful! Guard every opening more closely than ever, and
+if the robbers show themselves, fire your carbines, use the pistols
+afterwards.”
+
+The officer had truly divined their manœuvres; understanding that they
+had been discovered and their comrades captured, the robbers hoped to
+avail themselves of the opportunity afforded by the soldiers’ efforts
+in extinguishing the flames, to make their own escape and liberate
+their friends. We soon saw the remaining six and their captain rush
+out of the masked entrance by the bushes; but three guards were at
+this post; each one drew his carbine before the robbers had time to
+use their arms. Two of the thieves fell, and the third let his pistol
+drop from his hands, his arm was broken. But the captain and the other
+three rushed furiously upon the soldiers, who, sabre in one hand and
+pistol in the other, fought like lions. Before the officer and the two
+soldiers guarding the opposite side of the convent had had time to come
+to their companions’ assistance, the combat was nearly ended and the
+robbers all either killed or wounded; the captain who still defended
+himself against a soldier, being the only one on his feet. His two
+comrades were dangerously wounded. The arrival of reinforcements ended
+the contest. In the twinkling of an eye, the captain was surrounded,
+disarmed, gagged and put beside the other six.
+
+During this struggle the fire died out; in fact, nothing had been
+burning but some bushes and undergrowth, but the officer before
+penetrating into the vaults wished to await the arrival of the
+expected reinforcements. The night was well advanced, when we saw the
+six additional soldiers and the vehicle which was to take away the
+prisoners. They were placed in it side by side. The officer being
+humane, had given orders to remove the gags, and in consequence, the
+soldiers were loaded with all manner of abusive epithets, to which,
+however, they paid no attention. Two of them got into the wagon to
+escort the prisoners, and meanwhile litters were made to carry the
+wounded.
+
+During these preparations, I accompanied the officer, who, with eight
+men, penetrated into the vaults. We traversed a long corridor, which
+sloped downward, until at last we reached the vaults, where the
+brigands had established their dwelling. One of these caves served for
+their stable, and here we found all my comrades captured that day, each
+one with a stone to his tail. The stones were immediately detached,
+and the donkeys began to bray in unison. Being underground, it was
+deafening.
+
+“Silence! donkeys!” said a soldier, “unless you want your trinkets put
+on again.”
+
+“Let them alone,” responded another soldier, “you know very well they
+are sounding Cadichon’s praises.”
+
+“I would prefer their doing it in another tone,” said the first soldier
+laughing.
+
+“This man assuredly,” said I to myself, “does not like music. What does
+he find to censure in my comrades’ voices.” Poor comrades! they chanted
+their deliverance.
+
+We continued our inspection. One of the vaults was full of stolen
+goods. In another, were the prisoners kept to wait on them, some
+attended to the dishes, the cooking, the cleaning of the vaults, others
+made the clothing and shoes. Some of these unhappy creatures had been
+there for two years; they were chained by twos, and had little bells
+to their arms and feet, so as to keep one always acquainted with their
+movements. Two robbers remained constantly with them as guards, and
+never more than two captives were allowed in the same vault, except
+those who made the clothing. The latter were all together whilst
+working, but during this time the end of their chain was attached to a
+ring fastened in the wall.
+
+I learned afterwards that these captives, about forty in number, were
+the visitors to the ruins, who had been disappearing for the last two
+years. They related how the robbers had killed before their eyes, three
+of them, who were sick, and one who obstinately refused to work.
+
+The soldiers delivered all these poor creatures, brought the donkeys
+to the castle, carried the wounded men to the hospital, and put the
+robbers in prison. The latter were judged and condemned; the captain
+to death, the others to transportation to Cayenne. As for me, I was
+the universal subject of admiration; wherever I went, I heard persons
+saying:
+
+“It is Cadichon! the famous Cadichon, worth all the donkeys in the
+country!”
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+THERESA.
+
+
+My little mistresses, (for my masters and mistresses corresponded to
+the number of the grandmother’s grandchildren,) had a cousin, of whom
+they were very fond. She was near their age, and their most intimate
+friend. Theresa was her name, and a good, kind little darling she was.
+She never touched me with a switch, and never permitted anyone to do so
+when she was on my back.
+
+In one of our promenades, my young mistresses came upon a little girl
+seated along the roadside. She rose at their approach and came limping
+towards them, asking alms. They were all touched at her sad, dejected
+appearance.
+
+“Why do you limp, little one?” said Theresa.
+
+“Because my shoes hurt me, miss.”
+
+“Why don’t you ask your mamma to get you another pair?”
+
+“I have no mamma, miss.”
+
+“Ask your papa, then?”
+
+“I have no papa, miss.”
+
+“But with whom do you live?”
+
+“With nobody, I live alone.”
+
+“Who feeds you?”
+
+[Illustration: A little girl asked alms from them.—(Page 94.)]
+
+“Sometimes nobody, sometimes everybody.”
+
+“How old are you?”
+
+“I do not know, miss, about seven years perhaps.”
+
+“Where do you sleep?”
+
+“Wherever anybody takes me in; when everybody drives me away, I sleep
+out-doors, under a tree, near a hedge, anywhere.”
+
+“But in winter you must freeze.”
+
+“I get cold, but I am used to it,”
+
+“Have you had any dinner to-day?”
+
+“I have not eaten since yesterday.”
+
+“Oh! that is dreadful, dreadful,” said Theresa, with tears in her eyes.
+“My dear cousins, wouldn’t your grandma give this poor little thing
+something to eat and let her sleep in the castle?”
+
+“Certainly,” answered the three cousins, “grandma would be delighted,
+and, besides, she always does what we wish her to do.”
+
+“But, Theresa,” said Beatrice, “how shall we get her to the house? see
+how she limps.”
+
+“Put her on Cadichon, and let us go on foot, instead of taking turns on
+Cadichon, two by two, as we have been doing.”
+
+“Oh, to be sure; what a good idea,” exclaimed the three cousins.
+
+They put the little girl on my back, and Maud gave her a piece of bread
+that had been left of their lunch. She was delighted to get a ride,
+but so great were her fatigue and hunger, that she ate the bread with
+avidity, and said nothing.
+
+When we reached home, Maud and Elizabeth took the child into the
+kitchen, whilst Beatrice and Theresa ran to their grandmother.
+“Grandma,” said Beatrice, “will you let us give a good little girl that
+we found on the road something to eat?”
+
+“Certainly, my darling; but who is she?”
+
+“I don’t know, grandma.”
+
+“Where does she live?”
+
+“Nowhere, grandma.”
+
+“Nowhere! how is that? Her parents must live somewhere.”
+
+“She has no parents, grandma, she is all alone.”
+
+“And,” said Theresa, timidly, “will you let the poor little thing sleep
+here?”
+
+“If she really has no home, I could not turn her away; but I must see
+her and speak to her.”
+
+So saying, she arose and went to the kitchen where the little girl was
+finishing her meal. She called the child, who came limping, questioned
+her and obtained the same replies. It was truly an embarrassing
+case. To send this child away, plunging her again into the state of
+abandonment and suffering from which she had just been rescued, would
+be impossible; but then what was to be done with her? who was to take
+charge of and raise her?
+
+“Listen, my dear,” said the grandmother, “you will eat and sleep here,
+whilst I make inquiries as to the truth of your account, and in a few
+days I will see what I can do for you.”
+
+She then gave orders to prepare a bed for the child, and not to let
+her want for anything; but the poor little creature was so filthy
+that no one wished to touch her or even come near her. Theresa was in
+despair; she could not insist upon her aunt’s servants doing what was
+so repugnant to them.
+
+“It was I,” thought she, “who brought her here, and I am the one to
+have the care and trouble. But how shall I do?”
+
+After a moment’s reflection, an idea presented itself.
+
+“Wait, my dear,” said she, “I will be back presently.” And she ran to
+her mamma.
+
+“Mamma,” said she, “ought I not to take a bath?”
+
+“Yes, Theresa, go now, your nurse is waiting for you.”
+
+“Mamma, instead of taking a bath myself, would you let me give one to
+the little girl we have brought here?”
+
+“What little girl? I have not seen her.”
+
+“A poor, poor little thing, who has no papa, no mamma, no one to take
+care of her, who sleeps out-doors, and eats only what people give
+her. Maud’s grandma says she may stay at the castle, but none of the
+servants will touch her.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because she is so dirty, so dirty, she is disgusting; then mamma, if
+you are willing, I will bathe her in my place, not to disgust nurse. I
+will undress and soap her myself, and I will cut her hair, which is all
+tangled and full of little white insects.”
+
+“But, my little Theresa, won’t it disgust you too, to touch and wash
+her?”
+
+“A little, mamma, but when I think that if I were in her place, it
+would make me so happy to have somebody care for me, I feel encouraged.
+And mamma, when she is washed, will you let me put some of my old
+clothes on her, till I buy her new ones?”
+
+“Certainly, my dear little Theresa, but how can you buy her clothing?
+You have only two or three francs, about enough to get her a chemise.”
+
+“Oh! mamma, you forgot my twenty franc piece!”
+
+“That you gave your papa to keep for you, so you would not spend it?
+I thought you were saving that to buy a beautiful prayer book like
+Maud’s.”
+
+“I would rather do without the beautiful prayer book, mamma, I still
+have my old one.”
+
+“Do as you wish, my child, whenever there is a question of doing good,
+I leave you free to use your own pleasure.”
+
+Her mamma embraced her, and then went with her to see this little girl
+that no one would touch.
+
+“If she has any disease of the skin, that Theresa can catch, I shall
+not let Theresa touch her,” said the mother.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The little girl still waited at the door. A careful examination of
+her hands and body revealed no traces of disease, but a great deal
+of dirt. Her hair was so full of vermin, that making her sit on the
+grass, Theresa’s mamma cut it close to her head, without touching it
+with her hands. When it was all on the grass, she took it up on a
+shovel, and told one of the servants to throw it away out of reach.
+Then in a tub of tepid water, with Theresa’s assistance, she gave the
+little beggar’s head a thorough washing and cleaning. Having wiped
+it, she said to Theresa: “Now, my pet, whilst you give her a bath, I
+will throw these rags in the fire.” Maud, Beatrice and Elizabeth came
+to Theresa’s assistance; they all four led her into the bath room and
+undressed her, in spite of the disgusting odor of her rags and dirt.
+Then eagerly plunging her in the water, they soaped her from head to
+foot. The operation was such a pleasant one to all parties, both the
+little girl and her friends, that she was kept in somewhat longer than
+necessity required. When the bathing was over, and she had expressed
+her satisfaction, the four assisted her out of the bath tub. Then after
+wiping and rubbing her skin until it was very red and as dry as a ham
+bone, they arrayed her in a chemise, a petticoat and a dress belonging
+to Theresa, all of which answered the purpose, because Theresa, like
+other little girls in her station, wore her clothes very short, whilst
+the little beggar’s were expected to reach her ankles. The waist was
+somewhat long, but not being excessively particular, everyone was
+pleased. When about to put on her shoes and stockings, the children
+perceived a sore upon the instep. It was this which had made her limp.
+Maud immediately ran to her grandmother for some salve. The grandmother
+gave what was necessary, and Maud, assisted by her three friends, one
+of whom steadied the little girl, whilst a second held her foot, and a
+third unrolled the bandage and applied the liniment. They were nearly
+one quarter of an hour arranging a compress and band; sometimes it was
+too tight, sometimes not tight enough; the band was too high, or the
+compress too low; they disputed and jerked the sore foot first this way
+and then that, the owner, meanwhile, not daring to object or utter a
+complaint. At last, however, the bandage was arranged satisfactorily, a
+pair of Theresa’s old stockings and slippers put on her feet, and the
+little beggar relieved of her kind waiting maids’ attentions. When she
+returned to the kitchen no one recognized her.
+
+“This is certainly not the little fright that just went out of here,”
+said one servant.
+
+“It is the same child,” replied another servant, “but no one would know
+it, she looks so genteel now.”
+
+“It is all lost time for Madame d’Arbe and the children to fix her up
+like that. As for me, I would not have touched her if they had given me
+twenty francs,” said the cook.
+
+“And she smelt so bad,” said the kitchen girl.
+
+[Illustration: “Come, come,” interposed the cook, “don’t go too
+far.”—(Page 105.)]
+
+“You ought not to have such a sensitive nose, my fair one,” replied
+the coachman, “you who have your gridirons, your saucepans and all such
+things to clean.”
+
+“My gridirons and saucepans are not strong of the stable, like some
+people I know,” was the kitchen girl’s answer, somewhat piqued.
+
+“Ah! ah! ah! she is angry, take care of the broom!” said the other
+servants.
+
+“If she takes hers, I know very well where to find mine,” said the
+coachman, “and the pitchfork and curry-comb.”
+
+“Come, come,” interposed the cook, “don’t go too far; she is
+passionate, and you know you must not irritate her.”
+
+“What is that to me? if she gets angry, so will I.”
+
+“But I do not want that here; madam does not like disputes; it is very
+certain that we all would come in for a share of the blame.”
+
+“Le Vatel is right,” said another servant. “Hush, Thomas, you are
+always getting up a quarrel. Besides, this is not your place.”
+
+“Indeed! my place is anywhere, when I have no stable work to do.”
+
+“But you have work to do,” replied the cook. “Look at Cadichon, not yet
+unsaddled, and walking up and down like a countryman waiting for his
+dinner.”
+
+“I believe Cadichon listens at the doors; he is more cunning than
+he seems; he is a real scamp of a donkey,” said the coachman, as he
+called me, and taking hold of my bridle, led me to the stable. Having
+unbridled and unsaddled me, he left me alone, that is, with two horses
+and another donkey, with none of whom I ever deigned to converse.
+
+I know not what took place that evening at the castle, but the next
+afternoon I was saddled, and with the little beggar on my back, my four
+little mistresses following on foot, we all went to the village. I
+learned from their conversation that they were on a shopping expedition
+for their protégé. Theresa wished to furnish the outfit entire,
+the others insisted on paying their share, and the dispute grew so
+animated, that had I not stopped at the store of myself, they would
+have passed it. In helping the little girl to get down, they nearly
+pitched her face foremost on the ground, for all darted at her at once;
+one caught her by the legs, another by the arms, a third by the waist,
+whilst Elizabeth, who was stronger than two or three of the others put
+together, pushed them away so that she could help the child off all by
+herself. Pulled here and there, the poor thing began to cry of fright,
+until she attracted the attention of passers by. The store-keeper
+opened the door:
+
+“Good morning, young ladies, let me help you, you are not strong enough
+to lift this little girl.”
+
+My young mistresses, satisfied at not having yielded to one another,
+relinquished their hold on the child and the store-keeper immediately
+lifted her off my back.
+
+“What will you have, young ladies?” said Madam Juivet.
+
+“We want to get materials for clothing for this little girl,” answered
+Beatrice.
+
+“Oh, certainly; is it a dress, a petticoat, or undergarments you wish?”
+
+“We want materials for all, Madam Juivet,” answered Maud; “let us have
+enough to make three chemises, one petticoat, one dress, one apron, one
+neckerchief, two bonnets.”
+
+“Let me speak, Maud,” whispered Theresa, “since I am going to pay.”
+
+“No, you are not going to pay all, we wish to pay part,” was the
+whispered answer.
+
+“But I would rather pay alone,” said Theresa in the same tone, “she is
+my girl.”
+
+“No, she isn’t, she belongs to us all,” said Maud.
+
+“What materials do you prefer?” interrupted Madam Juivet, impatient to
+sell.
+
+Whilst Maud and Theresa continued their dispute in an undertone,
+Beatrice and Elizabeth took advantage of the opportunity to make the
+purchases.
+
+“Good-bye, Madam Juivet,” said they, “send it home as soon as possible,
+and enclose the bill also.”
+
+“How is that!” exclaimed Maud and Theresa, “have you already bought the
+things?”
+
+“Yes,” answered Beatrice, with a mischievous air, “we selected all that
+was necessary whilst you two were talking.”
+
+“But you ought to have consulted our tastes too,” replied Maud.
+
+“Certainly, since I am the person who pays,” said Theresa.
+
+“We’ll all pay, we’ll all pay!” cried the other three in chorus.
+
+“How much is it?” inquired Theresa.
+
+“Thirty-two francs, miss.”
+
+“Thirty-two francs!” exclaimed the frightened Theresa, “but I have only
+twenty.”
+
+“Ah! we’ll pay the rest,” said Maud.
+
+“So much the better, as we will then have all helped to clothe her,”
+said Elizabeth.
+
+“So thanks to Madam Juivet, we are at last agreed, and it was not such
+an easy matter,” said Beatrice laughing.
+
+Through the open door, I had heard all, and was indignant at Madam
+Juivet, for she had charged my kind little mistresses at least double
+the value of their goods. I hoped their mammas would not consent to
+the imposition. We returned home, every one pleased, thanks to Madam
+Juivet, as Beatrice had innocently remarked.
+
+It was beautiful weather, and all were seated on the lawn in front of
+the house when we arrived. William, Henry, Louis and James had been
+fishing in one of the ponds, during our trip to the village, and had
+just returned with three fine fishes and a number of little ones.
+Whilst Louis and James took off my saddle and bridle, the four little
+girls gave their mammas an account of their purchases.
+
+“What did they come to?” said Theresa’s mamma. “How much is left of
+your twenty franc piece?”
+
+Theresa was a little embarrassed, and blushed slightly as she answered:
+
+“Nothing, mamma.”
+
+“Nothing! twenty francs to dress a child six or seven years old!” said
+Maud’s mamma. “That is dreadfully high! what have you bought?”
+
+Theresa could not tell, she could only say that Beatrice and Elizabeth
+had made the selection.
+
+But the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Madam Juivet
+with the package, much to the delight of Beatrice and Elizabeth, who
+were beginning to think they had made a bad bargain.
+
+“Good day, Madam Juivet,” said the grandmother, “open your package here
+on the lawn and let us see what these little girls have bought.”
+
+Making a salutation, Madam Juivet laid down her bundle, undid it, and
+after taking from it the bill, which she handed Beatrice, proceeded to
+display the goods.
+
+Beatrice had blushed on receiving the bill; her grandmother took it
+from her hands and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
+
+“Thirty-two francs to dress a little beggar! Madam Juivet,” added she,
+in a severe tone, “you have taken advantage of my grandchildren’s
+ignorance; you know very well that these materials are entirely too
+expensive for our purpose. You will take them all back, and know that
+hereafter we deal no more with you.”
+
+“Madam,” said Madam Juivet, with restrained wrath, “these young ladies
+consulted their own tastes, I did not make the selection of a single
+article.”
+
+“But you ought to have shown them only what was suitable, and not have
+tried to palm off on them your old merchandise that no one wants.”
+
+“Madam, these young ladies having bought my goods, ought to pay for
+them.”
+
+“They will pay for none of them,” replied the grandmother, in a tone
+of severity, “and you may take them all back. Go, immediately; I shall
+send my maid to make the necessary purchases of Madam Jourdan.”
+
+Madam Juivet retired in a terrible rage. I accompanied her to the road,
+braying triumphantly and frisking around her, much to the children’s
+amusement and her own terror, for feeling guilty, she feared my
+vengeance, as everybody considered me somewhat of a sorcerer, and
+consequently evil doers stood greatly in awe of me.
+
+The mammas scolded the children, the boys laughed at them; as for me,
+I quietly nibbled the grass, and watched them run, skip and play.
+Listening meantime to all that was said (for I always took good care to
+keep within hearing distance). I learned that next day there was to be
+a gunning party, that Henry and William were to have little muskets for
+the occasion, and also, that one of their young neighbors was invited
+to join them.
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+THE GUNNING PARTY.
+
+
+As I have already remarked there was to be a gunning expedition next
+day, William and Henry were ready before anyone else—it was their
+first appearance as gunners—so equipped with guns and game bags, their
+eyes sparkling with pleasure, they strutted around in a proud, defiant
+manner, as if they expected to shoot all the game in the country. I
+followed at a distance, and observed all their preparations for the
+expedition.
+
+“William,” said Henry in a thoughtful manner, “when our game bags are
+full, where shall we put the rest of our game?”
+
+“That is just what I was thinking of,” answered William, “I will ask
+papa to let us take Cadichon.”
+
+This idea did not please me at all; I knew that young gunners fired a
+little at random and in aiming at a partridge, they might send the load
+into me, so I anxiously awaited the result of the request.
+
+“Papa,” said William to his father who approached, “may we take
+Cadichon?”
+
+“For what?” answered the father laughing, “do you wish to gun on donkey
+back, and pursue the partridges in their flight? If so, you must first
+put wings to Cadichon.”
+
+“No, papa,” said Henry, a little vexed, “we want him to carry our game
+when our pouches are too full.”
+
+“To carry your game!” replied his father greatly surprised and still
+laughing. “You think then, poor innocents, you are going to kill not
+only something, but a great deal!”
+
+“Certainly papa,” was Henry’s piqued reply, “I have twenty cartridges
+in my vest, and I shall kill fifteen pieces of game, at least.”
+
+“Ah! ah! ah! that is really a good joke! Do you know what you will
+kill, you two and your friend Alfred?”
+
+“What papa?”
+
+“Time and nothing else.”
+
+“Well papa,” said Henry, very much annoyed, “why do you give us guns,
+and take us out gunning, if you think us so stupid and awkward as to
+kill nothing?”
+
+“To teach you to gun, little dunces, nobody is a successful gunner at
+first, one becomes so only by dint of practice.”
+
+Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Alfred, also
+ready to shoot all he came across. William and Henry were still flushed
+with indignation when Alfred joined them.
+
+“Papa thinks we are not going to shoot anything, Alfred,” said William,
+“we’ll convince him that we are better gunners than he thinks.”
+
+“Don’t worry about it; we shall kill more than themselves,” replied
+Alfred.
+
+“Why more?” inquired Henry.
+
+“Because we are young, active and nimble, whilst our papas are getting
+a little old.”
+
+“Yes indeed,” said Henry, “my papa is forty-two years old, whilst
+William is fifteen and I thirteen. What a difference!”
+
+“And between my papa and me too! He is forty-three, whilst I am but
+fourteen!” said Alfred.
+
+“Listen to me,” said William, “without telling papa, I am going to have
+Cadichon saddled and the panniers put on him. He will follow us, and we
+will make him carry our game.”
+
+“Oh, that is splendid!” replied Alfred, “but put on the big panniers,
+for if we were to kill a buck it would take up a great deal of room.”
+
+Henry was charged with the commission. I laughed to myself at their
+foresight, for I was very sure not only of not being loaded with a
+buck, but of returning with panniers as empty as at my departure.
+
+“Ready!” said the papas. “We will go ahead, and you boys keep near. We
+will disband on getting into the field.”
+
+“What does this mean, Cadichon following us?” said William’s father in
+great surprise, “Cadichon ornamented with two enormous baskets!”
+
+“Those baskets,” said the gamekeeper laughing, “are to carry the young
+gentlemen’s game.”
+
+“Ah! ah! they wish to put him at their head—I would prefer Cadichon’s
+following (if he has nothing else to do,) instead of taking the lead,”
+replied William’s father.
+
+And he smiled as he glanced at William and Henry, who tried to look
+very indifferent.
+
+“Is your gun cocked, William?” inquired Henry.
+
+“Not yet, it is so hard to cock and uncock, that I prefer waiting till
+a partridge starts up.”
+
+“We are now in the field,” said their papa, “keep in a line and shoot
+ahead, straight ahead of you, not to the right or the left, unless you
+want to kill some of us.”
+
+The partridges flew up on all sides; I remained prudently behind, and
+even at a little distance, finding it advisable, for more than one dog
+that happened to be in the way, got a few grains of shot. The dogs
+scented the game, started it up, and did their duty in every respect,
+reports of muskets were heard all along the line. I did not lose sight
+of my three young boasters, they fired often, but got nothing, none
+of the three even touched a hare or partridge. Their impatience was
+so great that they always fired out of range, either too far or too
+near; sometimes all three aimed in vain at the same partridge. The
+papas on the contrary, were having fine sport, each report of the gun
+representing an addition to their game bags. In about two hours, Henry
+and William’s papa came up to them.
+
+“Well, children,” said he, “is Cadichon very heavily laden? Is there
+still room for me to empty my game bag? for it is too full.”
+
+There was no answer; the boys knew from their father’s mischievous
+manner, that he was making sport of them. As for me, I came running up,
+and turned one of the baskets towards him.
+
+“How is this?” said he, “empty! your game bags will burst if you cram
+them.”
+
+The game bags were flat. Laughing at the young gunners’ discomfited
+air, he emptied his birds into one of my baskets and hastened to his
+dog which was starting more game.
+
+“I see how your father kills so many partridges,” said Alfred; “he has
+two dogs that scare up the game and bring it to him, when he kills it;
+as for us, they have not left us even one dog.”
+
+“That is true,” replied Henry, “perhaps we have killed a number of
+partridges, but have lost them for want of a dog to bring them to us.”
+
+“But I have not seen any fall,” said William.
+
+“Because a partridge does not fall as soon as it is shot,” said Alfred,
+“It flies a little and falls some distance off.”
+
+“But when papa and my uncles shoot,” persisted William, “their
+partridges fall immediately.”
+
+“It seems so to you,” explained Alfred, “because you are some ways off,
+but if you were in their place, you would notice the difference.”
+
+William said nothing, but his manner betrayed very little confidence in
+Alfred’s words. They had all begun to leave off somewhat of the proud,
+soldierly air with which they sallied forth as gunners.
+
+They commenced to inquire the hour.
+
+“I am hungry,” said Henry.
+
+“I am thirsty,” said Alfred.
+
+“I am tired,” said William.
+
+As to the papas, they fired and killed, and had plenty of luck.
+However, not forgetting their young companions, and not wishing to
+fatigue them too much, they proposed a halt for breakfast, which met
+with universal approbation. Calling in the dogs from the field to
+rest for awhile, they all directed their steps towards a farm about a
+hundred steps off, where the grandmother had sent the provisions.
+
+They seated themselves on the ground under an old oak, and opened the
+baskets, which displayed as usual on such occasions, a chicken pie, a
+ham, hard eggs, cheese, marmalade, preserves, a big bun, an enormous
+cake and several bottles of old wine. All the gunners, young and old,
+had fine appetites, and ate enough to have astonished a spectator. Yet
+the grandmother had provided so bountifully for the needs of the most
+voracious, that half the provisions remained for the gamekeepers and
+farm people. The dogs had the scraps to appease their hunger and pond
+water to quench their thirst.
+
+“You have not had much luck, children,” said Alfred’s papa. “Cadichon
+does not move as if he were heavily laden.”
+
+“It is no wonder, papa, we had no dogs, you had them all.”
+
+“Ah! you think then that one, two or three dogs would have insured the
+death of all the partridges that passed under your nose.”
+
+“No, papa, they would not have killed the partridges, but they would
+have sought and brought us those we had killed, and then—”
+
+“Those you killed!” interrupted the father, with an air of
+astonishment. “Do you really think you have killed any birds?”
+
+“Certainly, papa, only as we did not see them fall, we could not pick
+them up.”
+
+“And do you suppose you would not have seen them if they had fallen?”
+
+“No, papa, for our sight is not as keen as that of the dogs.”
+
+At this, the father, the uncles, and even the gamekeepers, burst into a
+loud laugh, whilst the children reddened with vexation.
+
+“Now listen,” said William and Henry’s father, “since you lose your
+game for want of dogs, we are going to let you have a dog, when we get
+through breakfast and commence to gun again.”
+
+“But, papa,” said William, “the dogs will not follow us, they do not
+know us as well as they do you.”
+
+“To make them follow you, we will give you the two attendants, and we
+will not start for a half hour after you, and then the dogs will not be
+tempted to rejoin us.”
+
+“Oh! thanks, papa,” exclaimed William, radiant with joy. “With the dogs
+we are sure to kill as many as you!”
+
+Breakfast over and all rested, the young gunners were eager to set out
+with the dogs and the guards.
+
+“Now we look like real gunners,” said they, with an air of satisfaction.
+
+And we tried the field again, I following them as before breakfast,
+but always at a little distance. The guards had been told to keep near
+the children in order to prevent any imprudence. The partridges flew
+up on all sides as in the morning, the young gentlemen fired as in
+the morning, and with like success. Yet the dogs did their duty, they
+sought, they stopped the birds, but brought none, for this reason only,
+there were none to bring. At last, Alfred impatient at firing to no
+purpose and seeing one of the dogs standing the game, concluded that
+he would fire before the partridges had flown up, and thus secure his
+prize indeed. He aimed, he fired—the dog fell, struggling and uttering
+a piercing howl.
+
+“Zounds! it is our best dog!” exclaimed the gamekeeper rushing towards
+it.
+
+But the dog was dead ere he reached it, it had been shot in the head
+and died almost instantly.
+
+“You made a fine shot that time, master Alfred,” said the guard, laying
+the poor animal down, “I suppose that ends the gunning.”
+
+Alfred was motionless with consternation, William and Henry seemed much
+affected at the dog’s death, whilst the gamekeeper concealed his wrath
+and looked at the poor creature without saying a word.
+
+I approached to see which dog had been the miserable victim of
+Alfred’s awkwardness and conceit, and what was not my sorrow, my
+anguish, on recognizing Medor, my friend, my dearest friend! and oh!
+imagine my horror to see the guard lift Medor up, and put him in one of
+the baskets on my back! Ah! behold the game I was condemned to carry,
+Medor, my friend, murdered by a bad, stupid, conceited boy!
+
+We returned to the farm not quite so merry as we left, the children not
+speaking a word, the guard occasionally letting fall a furious oath,
+and I feeling no consolation, except in the thought of the severe,
+humiliating reprimand the murderer would surely receive.
+
+On reaching the farm we found the papas still there, for not having
+their dogs, they preferred to rest till the children’s return.
+
+“Already!” they exclaimed at the sight of us.
+
+“I really believe,” said William’s papa, “they have killed a big piece
+of game of some sort. Cadichon walks as if he had a load, and one of
+the baskets hangs as if it contained something heavy.”
+
+They arose and came towards us, but the children, with rueful
+countenances, lagged behind. Their parents were struck with their
+demeanor, what could it mean?
+
+“They certainly have not the air of victors,” said Alfred’s father,
+laughing.
+
+“Perhaps they have killed a calf or a sheep, mistaking it for a
+rabbit,” answered William’s papa, also laughing.
+
+The gamekeeper approached.
+
+“What’s the matter, Michaud? you look as downcast as the gunners.”
+
+“And with cause, sir, we bring a sad game.”
+
+“Tell us what it is then, a sheep, a calf, a donkey?”
+
+“Ah! sir, it is nothing to laugh at, it is your dog, Medor, the very
+best of the band, that master Alfred has killed, taking him for a
+partridge.”
+
+“Medor! Oh! the awkward boy! if ever he guns here again—” exclaimed the
+poor dog’s master.
+
+“Come here, Alfred,” said his father, “you see now the result of your
+conceit and ridiculous presumption. Say good-bye to your friends, sir;
+you are going home immediately, and you will put your gun away in my
+room, to touch it no more until you have learned a little sense and
+modesty.”
+
+“But, papa,” answered Alfred, assuming an air of indifference, “I don’t
+know why you should get so angry, it often happens that the dogs are
+killed on gunning parties.”
+
+“The dogs! the dogs are killed!” exclaimed the stupefied father,
+“indeed this is too much! You have beautiful notions of gunning, sir!”
+
+“But, papa,” continued Alfred, still apparently indifferent, “everybody
+knows that very often the best gunners kill their dogs accidentally.”
+
+“My dear friends,” said his father, turning towards the other
+gentlemen, “will you excuse me for having brought such an ill-mannered
+boy here? I did not believe him capable of so much stupidity and
+impudence.”
+
+Then to his son:
+
+“You have my orders, sir, go!”
+
+“But, papa—”
+
+“Silence! I tell you,” answered the father in a tone of severity, “not
+one word, if you don’t want to make acquaintance with my ramrod!”
+
+Alfred hung his head and went off, covered with confusion.
+
+“You see, children,” said William and Henry’s papa to them, “you see
+the result of presumption; that is, belief in a merit or quality which
+one does not possess. What happened with Alfred, might have happened
+with you also. You were all so convinced that nothing was easier than
+to be an expert marksman, you had nothing to do but to take aim, and
+the game was yours. You have all three been ridiculous since morning,
+you have despised our counsels, our experience, and in fact, you are
+all three guilty of poor Medor’s death. I see that you are both too
+young for gunning. In a year or two you may try it again. Meantime,
+return to your gardens and other childish amusements, it will be the
+better for everyone.”
+
+William and Henry hung their heads and made no answer, but sadly
+returned to the house. My unfortunate friend Medor, whose history I
+am going to relate to you, was buried in the garden by the children
+themselves, who wished to perform this last mournful rite for their
+pet. After reading the following sketch of his life, you will see why I
+loved him so much.
+
+
+
+
+XVI.
+
+MEDOR.
+
+
+I had known Medor a long time; I was young, and he still younger, when
+we became acquainted and formed mutual and inalterable attachment. I
+was then living miserably with those wretched farmers who had bought
+me from a dealer in donkeys, and from whom I escaped so cleverly. I
+was quite thin, for really they never gave me enough to eat. Medor
+(presented to them as a good watch dog, and afterwards proving himself
+a superb hunting dog) fared better than I; he amused the children,
+who often gave him bread and scraps of their meals; moreover, as he
+acknowledged to me himself, whenever it was possible, he used to slip
+into the dairy with the mistress or servant, where he was always sure
+to find some means of lapping a little milk or cream, and seizing the
+particles of butter which fell from the churn. Medor was kind; my lean,
+miserable appearance excited his pity, and one day he brought me a
+piece of bread, presenting it with a most triumphant air.
+
+“Eat, my poor friend,” said he, in his language, “I have bread enough
+given me for my own sustenance, and you, you have only thistles and
+poor grass, and hardly enough of these to keep you alive.”
+
+“Good Medor,” said I, “I am sure you have deprived yourself of this for
+me. I do not suffer so much as you think, for I am used to meagre fare,
+little sleep, much work and hard beatings.”
+
+“I am not hungry, my friend,” replied Medor, “I assure you, I am not
+hungry. Prove your friendship for me by accepting my little present.
+It is trifling I know, but I offer it willingly, and if you persist in
+refusing, I shall feel quite grieved.”
+
+“Then I accept, my kind Medor,” said I, “because I am fond of you, and
+I must confess, that I shall relish it greatly, for I am hungry.”
+
+And I ate the bread good Medor had brought me, he keenly enjoying the
+eagerness with which I crunched and swallowed it. I felt thoroughly
+revived by this unaccustomed repast, and said so to Medor, believing I
+could thus best express my gratitude. The result was characteristic of
+Medor, every day he brought me the biggest piece of bread given him. In
+the evening, he used to come and lie down beside me under the tree or
+bush I had selected for my night’s shelter, and we thus enjoyed many a
+pleasant conversation. And no one suspected, or could have understood,
+for we conversed without talking. We other animals, we do not pronounce
+our words like men, but we understand one another by winks, motions
+of the head, the ears, the tail, and we converse among ourselves as
+readily as men.
+
+One evening Medor came to me quite sad and dejected.
+
+“My friend,” said he, “I fear I shall no longer be able to bring you a
+part of my bread; my masters have decided that I am big enough to be
+tied all day, and let loose only at night. Moreover, my mistress has
+scolded the children for giving me so much bread; she has forbidden
+them to feed me at all, because she wishes to feed me herself and that
+sparely, to make me a good watch dog, she says.”
+
+“My kind Medor,” said I, “if it is the thought of my losing the bread
+that frets you, compose yourself, I no longer need it, for this morning
+I discovered a hole in the side of the hay rack, from which I have
+already helped myself to a little hay, and I find that I can easily do
+so every day.”
+
+“Indeed!” exclaimed Medor, “I am so glad! but yet it gave me such
+pleasure to share my bread with you. And then to be tied all day, and
+see you only at night, it is really sad!”
+
+We conversed a long time and it was very late when he left me.
+
+“I shall have time enough to sleep during the day,” said he, “and you
+too, as you are not kept very busy either at this season.”
+
+All the next day passed indeed without my seeing poor Medor. Towards
+evening, I was impatiently awaiting him, when his cries reached my
+ears. Running to the hedge, I saw that wicked woman, the farmer’s wife
+holding my kind friend by the skin of his neck, whilst Edward beat
+him with a carriage whip. I dashed through a breach in the hedge,
+caught Edward by the arm, and bit him in such a fashion that the whip
+fell from his hands. The wicked woman released her hold on Medor, who
+escaped; this was all I wanted, so I let go Edward’s arm, and was about
+returning to my enclosure, when I felt myself seized by the ears. It
+was the farmer’s wife, who in a rage called out to Edward:
+
+“Give me the big whip, till I beat this vicious animal! There never was
+a worse donkey in the world! Give it to me, or whack him yourself!”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“I can’t lift my arm,” said Edward in tears, “it is numb.”
+
+Seizing the whip that lay on the ground, she ran at me to avenge her
+cruel son. I was not fool enough to wait for her, you may be sure. Just
+as she had nearly caught me, I made a leap and left her some distance
+behind, she continued to pursue me, and I to escape, taking great care
+to keep myself out of reach of the whip. This race amused me very much;
+I saw my mistress’s wrath increase in proportion to her fatigue. I
+could run and sweat without doing myself the slightest harm, whilst
+she, covered with perspiration, was completely exhausted, without
+having had the pleasure of giving me even one lash of the whip. My
+friend was sufficiently avenged when our promenade ended. I sought him
+with my eyes (for I had seen him run towards my enclosure), but in
+vain, he was afraid to show himself before the departure of his cruel
+mistress.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“You wretch!” cried the enraged woman as she turned to leave, “I will
+pay you up for all this when I get you under the saddle!” and she went
+towards the house, whilst I remained alone.
+
+I now ventured to call Medor. He timidly lifted his head from the hole
+in which he had sought refuge. I ran to him.
+
+“Come,” said I, “she is gone. What did you do? why did Edward beat you?”
+
+“Because I seized a piece of bread one of the children had dropped on
+the ground. She saw me, darted at me, and calling Edward, told him to
+beat me unmercifully.”
+
+“Did no one try to defend you?”
+
+“Defend me indeed! they all cried out, that’s right! whip him Edward,
+so he won’t do it again.” ‘Keep quiet,’ said Edward, ‘I shall not go
+half way in the matter, you’ll hear how I can make him sing.’ And at my
+first cry, they all clapped their hands, exclaiming bravo! bravo!
+
+“Wicked little creatures!” cried I. “But why did you take the bread,
+Medor? Had they not given you your supper?”
+
+“Yes indeed, I had already eaten, but the bread in my soup was in such
+small pieces, that I could not get any of it out for you, but, if I
+could have carried off that big piece the child dropped, you would have
+had a delightful repast.”
+
+“My poor Medor! and it was for me you were beaten! Thanks, my friend,
+thanks; I shall never forget your kindness! But let me entreat you to
+not repeat it! Do you suppose that that bread would have given me any
+pleasure, if I had known what risks you ran to get it? I would rather a
+hundred times live on thistles, knowing that you were well treated and
+happy.”
+
+We conversed a long time, and I made Medor promise never again to
+incur the danger of a beating on my account; I also promised him that
+I would play all sorts of tricks on these people, and I kept my word.
+One day I knocked Edward and his sister into a puddle of water, and
+then ran off, leaving them struggling in the mud. Another time, I ran
+at the little three year old boy, as if I were going to bite him, how
+his screams of terror rejoiced my heart! Again, pretending to have the
+colic, I rolled on the ground with a heavy load of eggs on my back;
+every egg was smashed. My mistress, though furious, did not dare strike
+me, she believed I was really sick, that I was going to die, and they
+would lose all the money I had cost them, so instead of beating me,
+she led me back to the stable, and gave me some hay and bran. I never
+played a better trick in my life, and that evening Medor and I almost
+hurt ourselves laughing over it. Another time, seeing all their linen
+spread out on the hedge to dry, I took every piece in my teeth, one by
+one, and threw it into the barnyard pool. No one had seen me do this;
+so when the mistress could not find her linen, and when, at last after
+a search in every direction, it was discovered just where I have told
+you, she flew into a terrible rage, and beat the servant, who beat the
+children, who beat the cats, the dogs, the calves, the sheep! Oh! it
+was a charming uproar to me, every body screamed and was furious. Medor
+and I certainly passed a gay evening.
+
+[Illustration: She flew into a terrible rage.—(Page 128.)]
+
+In my subsequent reflexions upon these wicked deeds, I have sincerely
+reproached myself, for I revenged upon the innocent the faults of the
+guilty. Medor sometimes censured me and advised moderation, but no,
+I would not listen, every day I got worse and worse, only however to
+suffer for it, my evil conduct bringing its own punishment as you
+will learn hereafter.
+
+One day (and a sad day it was for me,) a gentleman who was passing took
+a fancy to Medor and offered the farmer a hundred francs for him. The
+farmer, believing him a dog of very little account, was delighted, and
+my poor friend with a rope around his neck, disappeared with his new
+master. He cast a sorrowful glance at me, and in vain did I run from
+one side of the hedge to the other seeking a passage, every breach was
+closed, and I had not even the consolation of bidding my dear Medor
+farewell. From that day, life there was almost insupportable. Medor’s
+departure was just before the little episode of market day, and my
+subsequent flight into the forest of St. Evroult, which I have already
+related. During the years that followed, I often, very often thought
+of my friend, and the pleasure it would be to see him again, but where
+seek him? for I knew his new master did not live in that part of the
+country, but was only there on a visit to some friends.
+
+Judge of my happiness, some time after little James had brought me
+to your grandmother’s, at seeing arrive with your uncle and cousins
+William and Henry, my friend, my dear friend Medor! He recognized
+me at once, and covered me with caresses, I responding to them, and
+following him everywhere. Our cordiality excited great surprise, but
+all attributed it to Medor’s delight at being in the country, and mine
+in finding a companion for my promenades. If they had been able to
+understand our long conversation they would have known the cause of
+our mutual affection.
+
+Medor was much pleased at all I told him of my present calm and
+peaceful life, of my master’s kindness, of my excellent and even
+glorious reputation throughout this part of the country. He sympathized
+with me in the recital of my pitiful adventures, and he laughed, though
+blaming me, at the tricks I had played on the farmer who bought me
+from George’s father. He actually was puffed up with pride when I told
+him of my victory at the race; he deplored the ingratitude of poor
+Pauline’s parents, and shed tears over the sad fate of that unhappy
+child.
+
+
+
+
+XVII.
+
+THE SCHOOL CHILDREN.
+
+
+One day Medor strayed off from the house where he had been born, and
+had always lived quite comfortably. He was in pursuit of a cat that
+had stolen a piece of meat given him by the cook, who thought it a
+little tainted. Medor, not being so delicate, had just put it down
+by his kennel, when a cat concealed near by, darted at the meat and
+carried it off, much to my friend’s indignation, as he was not often
+regaled on such luxuries. He pursued the thief with all the speed of
+his limbs, and would soon have caught her, if, wicked cat that she was,
+she had not bethought herself of climbing a tree. Medor, of course
+could not follow, and he was tantalized with seeing her devour before
+his eyes, the delicious morsel of which she had robbed him. Justly
+irritated at such effrontery, he remained at the foot of the tree,
+barking, growling and uttering a thousand reproaches. This attracted
+the attention of some children just out of school, and they united with
+Medor in annoying her. They even attacked her with stones until at last
+it was a veritable shower. The cat climbed higher, and tried to conceal
+herself in the thickest foliage. But this did not stop them, the shower
+of stones continued, accompanied by loud hurrahs, whenever a plaintiff
+mewing informed her persecutors that she had been hit.
+
+Medor began to weary of this game; the enemy’s touching cries had
+appeased his wrath and he feared that the children were too cruel. To
+end their sport he commenced to bark at them, and pull them by the
+blouse, but it had no effect, save that of causing a few stones to be
+directed against himself. At last, a hoarse, horrible cry, followed by
+a rustling among the branches, announced their success, the poor cat
+was grievously wounded, and had fallen from the tree. One minute after,
+she was not only wounded, but dead, her head having been crushed by a
+stone. This was a source of rejoicing to the mischievous children, who
+ought to have wept over their cruelty. As for Medor, he regarded his
+enemy with compassion, and the boys with an air of keen reproach. Just
+as he was about to return to the house, one of them exclaimed:
+
+“Oh! let us give him a bath in the river, it would be so amusing!”
+
+“Yes indeed, what a splendid idea,” cried the others, “catch him,
+Frederick, there he goes!”
+
+Behold Medor pursued by the cruel rascals, he and they running at
+full speed. Unfortunately, there were about a dozen of them scattered
+around, which obliged him always to run straight ahead, for if he
+deviated in the least, to the right or left, he could be surrounded
+and his flight retarded instead of hastened. At that time he was
+very young, not more than four months old; he could run neither very
+swiftly, nor any great distance without stopping, consequently his
+pursuers captured him. One seized him around the body, one by the tail,
+another by the paw, the neck, the ears, the back, they pulled him this
+way and that, to amuse themselves with his cries. At last, putting a
+cord around his neck almost tight enough to strangle him, they forced
+him by dint of kicks to the river.
+
+Two of them were about to remove the cord, and plunge him in, when the
+biggest boy exclaimed:
+
+“Wait, let’s tie two bladders to his neck, and make him swim; we can
+push him to the mill, and make him pass under the wheel.”
+
+[Illustration: They beat the boys—(Page 137.)]
+
+Vainly did poor Medor struggle; what could he do against a dozen little
+scamps, the youngest of them, at least, in his seventh year? Andrew the
+most cruel of the band, tied the two bladders around his neck, and
+then launched him into the very middle of the stream. My persecuted
+friend, impelled by the current, and still more vigorously by the
+poles in his tormentors’ hands, reached the place where the water
+precipitates itself under the mill wheel. Once under the wheel, he
+would certainly be ground to pieces.
+
+The workmen returned from their dinner, and one of them hastened to
+raise the barrier restraining the water. Perceiving Medor, he said:
+
+“Another of your cruel tricks,” you rascals; said he looking at the
+boys who waited in delightful anticipation of seeing Medor drawn under
+the wheel. “Friends,” he added, speaking to his fellow workmen, “come
+here and help punish these bad boys, who have been amusing themselves
+trying to drown a poor dog.”
+
+His comrades ran, and whilst he saved Medor by pushing a plank towards
+the poor creature for him to climb upon, the others gave chase to the
+boys, caught every one, and whipped them well, some with ropes, some
+with whips, some with sticks. The cries of the chastised children
+resounded far and near, for the workmen did not strike lightly. At
+last the job was finished, and Medor’s persecutors retreated, crying,
+sobbing and rubbing their smarting skins.
+
+The strangling cord around Medor’s neck was cut, and he was put out in
+the sun to dry upon some hay. He was soon dry, and ready to go home,
+but when the blacksmith led him back, the people there said they did
+not want him, they had too many dogs already, and they would throw him
+in the water with a stone to his neck, if he were left. The blacksmith
+was a kind man, and pitying Medor, took him to his own house. But at
+sight of the dog his wife got angry, her husband would ruin them, she
+said, they had not the wherewith to feed a worthless cur, and, besides,
+there was a tax upon dogs.
+
+Her opposition was so determined and so violent that her husband for
+peace sake got rid of Medor, by giving him to the cruel farmer with
+whom I then lived, and who had been wanting a watch dog.
+
+You now know how Medor and I became acquainted, and also, why we were
+so fondly attached to each other.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII.
+
+THE BAPTISM.
+
+
+William and Maud were to stand sponsors for a new born child, whose
+mother had been Maud’s nurse. Maud wanted them to call the baby after
+her.
+
+“Not at all,” said William, “since I am godfather, I have the right to
+name her, and I wish to call her Pierrette.”
+
+“Pierrette!” exclaimed Maud, “that’s a frightful name! I don’t want her
+named Pierrette, she shall be called Maud; as I am the godmother, I am
+the one who has the right to name her.”
+
+“No, you haven’t, the godfather has the best right, and I shall call
+her Pierrette.”
+
+“If she is to be named that, I won’t be godmother.”
+
+“If she is to be named Maud, I won’t be godfather.”
+
+“Just as you please about that, I can ask papa to take your place.”
+
+“And I, Miss, can ask mamma to take your place.”
+
+“Besides, I am quite sure aunt would not like her called Pierrette, it
+is too frightful and ridiculous.”
+
+“And I am sure uncle would not like her called Maud, it is too horrible
+and stupid.”
+
+“How did he happen to call me Maud then? Go to him and tell him you
+think it is a horrible, stupid name, go, my good man, and you will see
+how you will be received!”
+
+“Well, you may say what you please, but I say I will not be godfather
+for any Maud.”
+
+“Papa,” said Maud mischievously, running to her father, “will you stand
+godfather with me for little Maud?”
+
+“What Maud, dear pet? I know no Maud but you.”
+
+“My little godchild, papa, that I want called Maud when she is baptized
+to-day.”
+
+“But William is to stand with you, and there cannot be two godfathers.”
+
+“Papa, William does not wish to be godfather.”
+
+“Why? what is the meaning of this whim?”
+
+“Because he thinks Maud a horrible stupid name, and wants to call her
+Pierrette.”
+
+“Pierrette! that would be horrible and stupid indeed!”
+
+“It is just what I told him papa, but he would not believe me.”
+
+“Listen, my daughter, try to reason with your cousin, and if he insists
+upon not being godfather unless the baby is named Pierrette, I will
+cheerfully stand in place of him.”
+
+During Maud’s conversation with her father, William had run to his
+mother.
+
+“Mamma,” said he, “will you stand godmother with me in Maud’s place,
+for the little girl that is to be baptized to-day.”
+
+“Why is not Maud going to stand? it was a request of the baby’s mother
+that she would.”
+
+“Mamma, Maud wants the baby named after her, I think her name too ugly,
+and as I am godfather, I want the baby called Pierrette.”
+
+“Pierrette! that is frightful, William is pretty, but Pierrette is
+ridiculous!”
+
+“Oh! mamma, please call her Pierrette—At any rate, I don’t want her
+called Maud.”
+
+“But if neither of you will give up, how will you fix matters?”
+
+“Mamma, that is why I came to ask you to stand for little Pierrette in
+place of Maud?”
+
+“My poor William, I must tell you frankly, that I want no more of this
+Pierrette, the name is too ridiculous, besides, the child’s mother was
+Maud’s nurse, not yours, and you know very well, that she desires most
+particularly to have Maud for godmother. For my part, I think she
+would be pleased to have the baby called Maud.”
+
+“Then, I can’t be godfather.”
+
+At this instant Maud ran up, exclaiming:
+
+“Well, William, have you decided? We start in an hour, and must have a
+godfather.”
+
+“I am willing for her not to be called Pierrette, but I am not willing
+for her to be called Maud.”
+
+“Well, since you have given up Pierrette, I will give up Maud. But let
+us ask nurse what name she wants baby called.”
+
+“You are right; go ask her.”
+
+Maud went running off to the baby’s mother and soon came back.
+
+“William, William,” she exclaimed, “nurse wants her little daughter
+named Marie Maud.”
+
+“Did you inquire if she ought not to be called Pierrette, as I am
+godfather?”
+
+“Yes, I asked her, and she burst out laughing; mamma laughed too; they
+both said it was impossible, Pierrette was too ugly.”
+
+William blushed slightly, however, as he himself had began to think
+Pierrette ridiculous, he sighed and said nothing more on that subject.
+
+“Where are the sugar plums?” he asked.
+
+“In a big basket that will be taken to the church, the boxes and
+wrappings are left here. They are all ready, let us see how many there
+are.” And they ran to the hall where everything was in readiness.
+
+“What are these pennies for?” inquired William, “there seem to be
+nearly as many as sugar plums.”
+
+“They are to be thrown to the school children,” said Maud.
+
+“The school children? Are we going to the school after the baptism?”
+
+“No, we are to throw these from the church door, where all the school
+children collect on such occasions; we throw them by the handful, and
+the children catch them or pick them up from the ground.”
+
+“Did you ever see it done?”
+
+“Never, but I have heard that it is very amusing.”
+
+“I do not think I would like it, for I know very well the children
+fight and get hurt; besides I do not like the idea of flinging things
+to children as if they were dogs.”
+
+“Maud, William, come see the baby, it has just arrived; we start
+shortly,” cried Beatrice, out of breath.
+
+Both of them ran, trying to reach the baby first.
+
+“Oh! how fine our godchild is!” said William.
+
+“Yes, indeed,” replied Maud, “she has a dress embroidered all around, a
+lace bonnet, and a cloak lined with pink silk.”
+
+“Did you give her all those pretty things?”
+
+“Oh! no, I had not enough money; mamma paid for everything except the
+bonnet and I paid for it.”
+
+All was ready; though the weather was fine the carriage was brought out
+for the baby and its nurse, and the sponsors only. Maud and William
+were in the carriage like important personages. They started. I,
+harnessed to the children’s little conveyance waited for them. Louis,
+Helen, James and Ruth took the back seats, Beatrice and Elizabeth the
+front to drive, whilst Henry climbed behind. The mammas, papas and
+nurses started at different intervals, so that some of them might be
+near us in case of accident; but this was only an excess of prudence,
+for with me they knew there was nothing to fear.
+
+I set off in a gallop, notwithstanding my load, self-love excited me
+to overtake and even pass the carriage. I went like the wind and the
+children were enchanted.
+
+“Bravo!” they cried. “Courage, Cadichon, keep on galloping! Hurrah for
+Cadichon, the king of donkeys!”
+
+They clapped their hands and applauded.
+
+“Bravo!” cried people whom I passed on the road. “Look at that donkey,
+he runs like a horse! Good luck and no upsets!”
+
+The papas and mammas trudging along, were not so encouraging however,
+but wanted me to relax my speed, instead of which, I only galloped
+the faster. I was not very long in overtaking the carriage, and
+triumphantly did I dash past the horses, they looked at me with
+surprise. Feeling mortified at being overtaken by a donkey, especially
+as they had started first, they attempted a gallop, but the driver
+tightened his reins, and obliged them to relax their speed, whilst I
+hurried on faster than ever, so that when they reached the church door,
+my little masters and mistresses had all descended from the vehicle,
+whilst I, very warm and out of breath, was standing quietly hitched
+near the hedge for shade.
+
+The parents on arriving, admired my swiftness, and complimented the
+children on their equipage.
+
+The fact is we made quite a sensation, my carriage and I, I being
+well rubbed and curried, and decorated with variegated dahlias of red
+and white behind my ears, the harness polished and embellished with
+red mountings, and the vehicle repaired and varnished. We certainly
+presented a dashing appearance.
+
+Through the open window, I witnessed the baptismal ceremony, the infant
+screamed as if it were being murdered, Maud and William, somewhat
+embarrassed at their honors, got confused in repeating the Creed,
+and the priest was obliged to prompt them. Poor little godfather and
+godmother, their eyes were suffused with tears, and their faces as red
+as cherries! However, their mistake was no unusual occurrence, and
+often happens with grown people.
+
+Little Marie Maud being baptized, they went out of the church to throw
+sugar plums and pennies to the children collected around the door. As
+soon as the godfather and godmother appeared, all exclaimed; “Hurrah
+for the godmother! hurrah for the godfather!”
+
+The basket of sugar plums was ready, it was handed Maud, whilst William
+received the basket of pennies. Taking a handful of the former, Maud
+let them fall in a shower among the children. This was the signal for a
+general battle, a faithful representation of starving dogs.
+
+All rushed to the same spot, disputing every handful, both of sugar
+plums and pennies, as it was thrown; they tore one another’s hair,
+they struggled, they rolled over on the ground, and half the coveted
+articles were lost, crushed under foot or hidden in the grass. William
+did not laugh; nor Maud, after the first handful, for she saw that
+these battles were serious. For several of the children were crying,
+and others were badly scratched.
+
+“You were right, William,” said she, as soon as they took their seats
+in the carriage, “the next time I am godmother, I shall give the
+children sugar plums, not throw them.”
+
+“Nor I, the pennies,” said William, “I shall give them like you do the
+sugar plums.”
+
+The carriage started off, and I did not hear the rest of their
+conversation.
+
+My party now began to crowd in their vehicle, accompanied by the papas
+and mammas.
+
+“Cadichon,” said Maud’s mamma, “has already produced a sensation, so
+now he can afford to return more quietly and take us with him.”
+
+“Mamma,” said Beatrice, “do you like this custom of throwing the
+children sugar plums and pennies?”
+
+“No, dear child, I find it a very ignoble custom, the children
+reminding one of dogs fighting for a bone. If ever I am godmother in
+this part of the country, I shall distribute the sugar plums among the
+children, instead of throwing them, and I shall give to the poor, the
+amount of money wasted in pennies flung at random.”
+
+“You are right, mamma; please let me be godmother to do as you say.”
+
+“As an absolute necessity for your fulfilling that office, we must have
+a baby to be baptized,” said the mamma, smiling, “and I know of none.”
+
+“Oh, how provoking! I could be godmother with Henry. What would you
+call your godson, Henry.”
+
+“Henry, of course, what would you call him?”
+
+“Madelon.”
+
+“Oh horror! Madelon! In the first place it is not a name.”
+
+“It is as much of a name as Pierrette.”
+
+“Pierrette is prettier, and besides you see that William yielded.”
+
+“I could give up too,” replied Beatrice, “but we have time enough to
+think of it.”
+
+We reached the castle, all got out of the carriage and hastened to lay
+aside their holiday attire; my trinkets and dahlias were also taken off
+and I was turned out to pasture, whilst the children ate their lunch.
+
+
+
+
+XIX.
+
+THE LEARNED DONKEY.
+
+
+One day I saw the children run into the meadow where I was quietly
+grazing very near the castle. Louis and James were playing around
+me, finding amusement in getting on my back. They thought themselves
+as nimble as gymnasts, whilst they were, in reality, I must confess,
+somewhat clumsy, little James especially, who was plump, chunkier than
+his cousin. Louis at last, by holding on to my tail, managed to climb
+(he called it jumping) up on my back. James made prodigious efforts to
+follow his example, but the poor little fat fellow slipped, fell and
+got out of breath, and it was very evident that he could not succeed
+without the assistance of his cousin somewhat older than himself. To
+spare them so much fatigue, I went towards a piece of rising ground.
+Louis had already shown his agility, and James had just succeeded with
+a great effort in seating himself, when we heard the whole joyous
+band crying out: “James, Louis, we are going to the fair day after
+to-morrow, to see the learned donkey!”
+
+“The learned donkey? what is that?” inquired James.
+
+“A donkey,” replied Elizabeth, “that plays all manner of tricks.”
+
+“What tricks?”
+
+“Well tricks—tricks of—tricks I mean,” said Beatrice.
+
+“He can’t beat Cadichon, I know.”
+
+“Pshaw! Cadichon!”, said Henry, “Cadichon is a very fine animal and
+very intelligent of his kind, but he is nothing in comparison with the
+learned donkey at the fair!”
+
+“I am very sure,” answered Maud, “that if Cadichon were shown these
+tricks he could do them.”
+
+“Let us see what this learned donkey does, and then we can judge better
+as to whether he is more learned than our Cadichon,” said William.
+
+“William is right,” replied Maud, “let us wait till after the fair.”
+
+“And what will we do after the fair?” said Elizabeth.
+
+“We will dispute,” replied Beatrice laughing. James and Louis after
+whispering a few words to each other, had kept silence until the rest
+went away. When assured that these were out of sight and hearing, they
+commenced to dance around me, laughing and singing:
+
+    “Cadichon, Cadichon,
+    To the fair you will go,
+    And the learned donkey show
+    That as smart as he may be,
+    You are smarter still than he;
+    Every one will honor you,
+    Every one will praise you too,
+    And we shall be proud, so do
+    Your best, Cadichon, Cadichon.”
+
+“What we are singing is very pretty,” said James, stopping suddenly.
+
+“That is because they are rhymes,” answered Louis. “I really think they
+are pretty.”
+
+“Rhymes? I thought it was very difficult to make rhymes.”
+
+    Very easy as you see,
+    Though difficult apparently.
+
+“There are some more.”
+
+“Let us run and say them to our cousins.”
+
+“No, no, if they heard our verses, they would guess what we are going
+to do; we must take them by surprise at the fair.”
+
+“But do you believe papa and uncle will let us take Cadichon to the
+fair?”
+
+“Certainly, when we tell them in confidence, we want him to see the
+learned donkey.”
+
+“Let us run quick to ask them.”
+
+They were running at full speed towards the house just as the papas
+were coming to the meadow to see what the children were doing. “Papa,
+papa!” cried they, “come quick; we have something to ask you.”
+
+“Speak children, what is it?”
+
+“Not here, papa, not here,” was the mysterious answer, each one drawing
+his father aside.
+
+“What is the matter?” said Louis’s papa, laughing. “Into what
+conspiracy do you wish to drag me?”
+
+“Sh sh, papa, here is what it is: you know that day after to-morrow
+there will be a learned donkey at the fair.”
+
+“No, I did not know it, but what have we to do with learned donkeys,
+we, who have Cadichon?”
+
+“That is precisely what we say, papa, that Cadichon is smarter than
+any of them. My sisters and cousins are going to the fair to see this
+educated donkey, and we would like very much to take Cadichon, so that
+he may see what this donkey does and imitate him.”
+
+“What?” said James’s papa, “would you put Cadichon in the crowd to look
+at the donkey?”
+
+“Yes, papa, instead of going in the carriage, we can ride Cadichon, and
+get very near the circle in which the learned donkey plays his tricks.”
+
+“I would not ask anything better myself, but I do not believe Cadichon
+could learn much in one lesson.”
+
+“Can’t you, Cadichon, do as many smart tricks as that silly, educated
+donkey?”
+
+In addressing this question, James looked at me so anxiously, that to
+reassure him, I began braying, laughing all the while at his fears.
+
+“Do you hear that, papa,” said James triumphantly, “Cadichon says yes.”
+
+The two papas laughed, caressed their little boys, and turned away,
+promising not only that I should go to the fair, but that they would
+accompany us there.
+
+“Ah!” said I to myself, “they doubt my capacity! It is astonishing how
+much more intelligent these children are than their fathers.”
+
+The great day arrived. One hour before our departure, my toilet was
+made, and Louis and James having curried and rubbed me to the verge of
+vexation; after which, they decorated me with a perfectly new bridle
+and saddle, and then announced their readiness to start, as they wished
+to set out a little in advance, for fear of being late.
+
+“Why do you wish to go so early?” asked Henry, “and how are you going?”
+
+“We are going on Cadichon, and want to start early, because we can’t go
+fast,” said Louis.
+
+“Are you two going alone?” inquired Henry.
+
+“No, papa and uncle will accompany us.”
+
+“It will certainly be tiresome, if you are going at a gait to suit
+their walk.”
+
+“Oh! we never find it tiresome in our papa’s company.”
+
+“I prefer going in the carriage, we will get there long before you.”
+
+“No, you will not, for we will start so much sooner.”
+
+As they finished speaking, I was led out all saddled and decorated—the
+fathers were ready; they put their little boys on my back, and I
+started very slowly, so as not to make their fathers run.
+
+In an hour we reached the fair ground, where we found many persons
+already collected around the rope marking out a circle, within which
+the educated donkey was to display his ability. The fathers of the two
+little boys I had brought, stationed us very near the rope, and my
+other masters and mistresses soon rejoined us.
+
+The sound of a drum was the signal for my learned friend’s appearance.
+All eyes were fixed upon the curtain, which rose at last, and he came
+forth, a thin, sad, miserable looking creature. His master called him;
+he approached, but with an air of fear, and I saw at once that the poor
+thing’s learning had been instilled by hard beatings.
+
+“Gentlemen and ladies,” said the master, “I have the honor of
+presenting to you Mirliflore, the prince of donkeys. He is not like the
+rest of his race, he is a learned donkey, more learned indeed than many
+of us, he is the donkey par excellence, and without an equal. Come,
+Mirliflore, show what you can do, but first salute these gentlemen and
+ladies like a well raised donkey.”
+
+This discourse touched my pride, and made me very angry; I resolved to
+be revenged before the end of the exhibition.
+
+Mirliflore advancing three steps, made an inclination of his head with
+a melancholy air.
+
+“Go, Mirliflore, go give this bouquet to the prettiest lady here.”
+
+I laughed at seeing every hand half extended to receive the bouquet.
+Mirliflore went all around the circle, and stopping before a fat, ugly
+woman that I afterwards learned was the master’s wife, and who held a
+little sugar in her hand, lay down his flowers.
+
+[Illustration: “Mirliflore, the prince of donkeys.”—(Page 152.)]
+
+This want of taste enraged me; leaping over the rope to the great
+surprise of every one present, and making a graceful salutation, to
+those on my right, my left, before and behind me, I walked resolutely
+up to the fat woman, snatched the bouquet from her hands, and laid
+it on Maud’s lap. I then returned to my place, amidst the plaudits
+of the multitude. Every one inquired the meaning of this apparition;
+some believed it was all arranged beforehand, and that there were two
+learned donkeys; whilst others who had seen me with my little masters
+recognizing me, were delighted at my intelligence.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Mirliflore’s master seemed quite vexed, but the animal himself appeared
+so indifferent to my triumph, that I began to believe him really
+stupid, which is a quality very rare among us donkeys. When silence was
+re-established, the master called Mirliflore out again.
+
+“Come Mirliflore, show these gentlemen and ladies that you not only
+know how to distinguish beauty, but likewise stupidity; take this cap
+and put it on the most stupid person here.”
+
+Saying this, he gave Mirliflore a magnificent dunce-cap, ornamented
+with bells and variegated ribbons. Mirliflore, taking it between
+his teeth, went towards a fat, red faced boy, who inclined his head
+in advance to receive it. From his resemblance to the fat woman, so
+falsely declared the most beautiful person present, it was easy to
+recognize this boy as her son, and the master’s assistant.
+
+“Now,” thought I, “is the moment to revenge this fool’s insulting
+words!”
+
+And before anyone could think of preventing me, I again darted into the
+arena, ran to my comrade, snatched the dunce-cap from him at the moment
+he was about to place it on the fat boy’s head, and ere the master had
+time to defend himself, rushing at him, at putting my fore feet upon
+his shoulders, I tried to place the cap upon his head. He repulsed
+me violently, and grew furious, as peals of laughter and applause
+resounded on all sides.
+
+“Bravo donkey!” they cried, “this one is the real learned donkey.”
+
+Emboldened by the applause of the multitude, I made a new effort to
+fit the cap; as he recoiled I advanced, and we finished by a flying
+race, the man running at full speed, I after him, not getting near
+enough to him to ornament him with the cap, and not wishing to do him
+any harm. At last I jumped behind him, and placing my fore feet upon
+his shoulders, let him feel my weight; he fell and I profited by it,
+to bury his head up to his very chin in the dunce’s cap. I retired
+immediately; the man arose, but being somewhat confused and stunned
+by the fall, and unable to see clearly, he began to turn and jump. And
+I to complete the farce pretended to do the same, interrupting this
+burlesque imitation, by approaching him and braying in his ear, then
+standing on my hind feet, jumping like him, sometimes to one side, some
+times before him.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+To depict the laughter, the bravos, the joyful stamping of feet,
+would be an impossibility. Never had a donkey in the world such
+success, such a triumph! The ring was invaded by hundreds of persons
+wishing to touch, to caress, to approach me. Those who knew me were
+proud of what I had done, and told my name to those not acquainted
+with me. Numberless anecdotes, both true and false, were related,
+in which I played a magnificent part. One time, said my admirers, I
+had extinguished a fire, working a pump all alone; I had ascended
+to the third story, opened my mistress’s door, seized her asleep in
+bed, and all hope of escape by the stairs being cut off, I had jumped
+from the third story, having first carefully placed my mistress on my
+back—that neither she nor I had been hurt, because her guardian angel
+had sustained us in the air and we had gently descended to the ground.
+Another time, unassisted, I had killed fifty brigands, strangling them
+one by one with a single bite, so that none awakened to alarm the
+rest. I had afterwards liberated one hundred and fifty prisoners these
+robbers had kept chained in the caves for the sake of their services,
+making the poor creatures work to feed and enrich their masters. Again,
+at a race, I had beaten the best horses in the country, and finally, in
+five hours, I had made twenty-five leagues without stopping.
+
+The admiration for me increased in proportion to the circulation of
+these stories. I was surrounded, almost smothered, and the soldiers
+were obliged to drive off the crowd. Happily, the parents of James,
+Louis, and all my other masters had led their children away, whilst the
+crowd collected around me. I had much difficulty in escaping from my
+admirers, who wished to carry me in triumph—even the assistance of the
+soldiers was not sufficient to prevent such an honor, and I, in order
+to force my way through the crowd, was obliged to give a few bites, and
+attempted kicks, taking care, however, to hurt no one.
+
+[Illustration: The soldiers were obliged to drive off the crowd.—(Page
+158.)]
+
+Once rid of the crowd, I sought Louis and James, but in vain. Not
+wishing my dear little masters to return home on foot, I ran to the
+stable where our horses were always kept to see if they were still
+there, and, not finding them, I knew Louis and James had gone. Then,
+taking the road to the castle, and running at full speed, I soon caught
+up with the two carriages packed with parents and children to the
+number of fifteen.
+
+“Cadichon! there is Cadichon!” exclaimed all the children when they saw
+me.
+
+The carriages were stopped; James and Louis asked permission to get
+out, as they wished to compliment and caress me, and return home on
+foot. Their example was followed by Ruth and Helen, then by William and
+Henry, and at last by Elizabeth, Beatrice and Maud.
+
+“So you see,” said Louis and James, “we knew Cadichon better than you!
+How he did distinguish himself! He easily understood all the tricks of
+that stupid Mirliflore and his foolish master.”
+
+“So he did,” answered William, “but I would like very much to know why
+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.
+
+
+I remained alone till evening, no one came near me. Feeling lonesome
+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.
+
+“It is strange,” said the man, “that this animal will follow us! My
+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.”
+
+“To whom were you speaking, sir,” said Finot looking all around him,
+“there is no one here but myself.”
+
+“I know that very well, it is to yourself I am speaking.”
+
+“I do not know, sir, why you address me thus, I am not acquainted with
+you.”
+
+“Yes, but I am acquainted with you, you are Finot, an escaped criminal,
+condemned to the galleys for robbery and assaults.”
+
+“You are mistaken, sir, I am not the person you pretend to know so
+well.”
+
+“Then who are you, whence do you come, and where were you going?”
+
+“I am a dealer in sheep and was on my way to a fair at Moulins, to buy
+lambs.”
+
+“Indeed! and your companion, is he also a dealer in sheep and lambs?”
+
+“I do not know, we had met but a few moments before we were attacked
+and overcome by a band of robbers.”
+
+“And what about the papers in your pockets?”
+
+“I do not even know what they contain, we found them not far from here,
+and had not time to examine them.”
+
+“And the knives?”
+
+“The knives were with the papers.”
+
+“Really, you were lucky, to find and pick up so much without being able
+to see, the night was very dark.”
+
+“It was mere chance. My comrade stepped upon something that felt
+strange, we both stooped down, and feeling around, found these papers
+and knives which we divided.”
+
+“It is very unfortunate they were divided, for this circumstance
+furnishes evidence sufficient to thrust each of you in prison.”
+
+“You have no right to put us in prison, we are honest men.”
+
+“That is just what we are to find out, and before very long. Good day,
+Finot. Do not disturb yourself,” added he, seeing that Finot attempted
+to rise from the bench. “Men, give this man every attention, and keep
+him under your eye, for he has already escaped us more than once.”
+
+The officer retired, leaving Finot anxious and dejected.
+
+“If Passe Partout should only give the same account as myself,” said
+Finot, “but it is mere chance that he does.”
+
+Seeing the officer enter, Passe Partout felt that all was lost;
+however, he tried to conceal his anxiety and appear at ease, whilst the
+policeman looked at him attentively.
+
+“How do you happen to be here wounded and tied?” said the officer.
+
+“I know nothing about it,” answered Passe Partout.
+
+“You certainly know who you are, where you were going, by whom you were
+wounded.”
+
+“I know very well who I am, and where I was going, but I do not know
+who brutally attacked me.”
+
+“Well then, we will proceed in order—who are you?”
+
+“Is that your business? You have no right to ask travelers who they
+are.”
+
+“I have so good a right, that I put thumb-screws on those who refuse to
+answer, and take them to prison.”
+
+“I will begin again: who are you?”
+
+“I am a cider merchant.”
+
+“Your name if you please.”
+
+“Robert Partout.”
+
+“Where were you going?”
+
+“Just wherever I could buy cider.”
+
+“You were not alone, you had a companion?”
+
+“Yes, my partner in business, we attend to our affairs together.”
+
+“And these papers in your pockets, do you know anything about them?”
+
+“Ah!” said Passe Partout mentally, “he has read these papers, and
+thinks he can catch me there, but I will outwit him.”
+
+And then he added aloud:
+
+“Do I know anything about them? I certainly do. You mean the papers
+the brigands lost, and which I intended taking to the city police.”
+
+“How did you get these papers?”
+
+“We found them on the way, and having read them, were so anxious to
+deliver them to the authorities, that we continued our journey at
+night.”
+
+“And the knives that were found on you?”
+
+“The knives? we brought them to defend ourselves, for we had been told
+there were robbers in this part of the country.”
+
+“How and by whom were you and your companion wounded?”
+
+“By robbers who came upon us without our seeing them.”
+
+“Ah! Finot’s account is different from yours.”
+
+“Finot is so frightened that he has lost his memory, you must not
+credit what he says.”
+
+“I do not believe what he says, any more than I believe what you
+yourself tell me, friend Passe Partout, for I am well acquainted with
+you, you have betrayed yourself.”
+
+Passe Partout immediately perceived what a fool he had been in
+recognizing his companion as Finot. It was a nickname given him at the
+prison in derision of his lack of cunning.
+
+As to Passe Partout, his real name was Partout. One day as they were
+hurrying to the refectory, Finot exclaimed, “Passe Partout,” and the
+name became a fixture. He could deny matters no longer, still he would
+not confess; but shrugging his shoulders said:
+
+“Because I am acquainted with Finot? It was no harm to suppose you
+spoke of my companion. I thought you called him Finot in derision.”
+
+“Well, that is good! twist that as you will; it is none the less
+true, however, that you and your companion were journeying together
+buying cider, that you found these papers on the road, read them,
+and were carrying them to the town to put them in the hands of the
+authorities—that you bought the knives to defend yourselves against
+robbers, that you were attacked and wounded by these same robbers,—is
+not that the story?”
+
+“Yes, yes; that is, indeed, my account.”
+
+“Say, rather, your tale; for your companion has told quite another
+story.”
+
+“What did he say?” anxiously inquired Passe Partout.
+
+“It is not necessary for you to know just at present, but when you are
+both in the convict prison he will tell you.”
+
+And the officer went out of the room, leaving Passe Partout in a state
+of rage and anxiety easily imagined.
+
+“Do you think, doctor, that these men are able to walk to the town?”
+inquired the officer of Doctor Tudoux.
+
+“I think they can get there, if you do not urge them on too fast,”
+responded Doctor Tudoux, slowly. “Moreover, should they even give out
+on the way, you could easily send for a carriage and put them in it;
+but they are badly kicked on the head, and might die in three or four
+days.”
+
+[Illustration: The officer on horseback rode beside the wagon.—(Page
+235.)]
+
+The officer was perplexed, for he was a kind man, and, although the
+prisoners deserved no pity, he did not wish to make them suffer
+unnecessarily. Mr. de Ponchat, father of William and Henry, seeing
+his embarrassment, proposed to harness up one of our conveyances. His
+offer was gratefully accepted, and, when the vehicle was brought to
+the door, Finot and Passe Partout were put into it, each between two
+guards. Moreover, their feet were tied to prevent their leaping out and
+escaping, and the officer on horseback rode beside the wagon, never
+losing sight of his prisoners. They soon disappeared, and I remained
+alone before the house, eating grass and impatiently awaiting my little
+masters, especially my dear James, whom I longed to see. I knew that
+the service I had just rendered would secure their pardon for all past
+misdeeds.
+
+When, at last, it was a reasonable hour in the morning, and everyone
+about the castle had arisen, dressed and breakfasted, a group rushed
+down the front steps. It was the children. All ran to me and caressed
+me to my heart’s content, but the caresses of none were so affectionate
+or so dear to me as those of little James.
+
+“My good Cadichon,” said he, “you have come back! I was so sorry when
+you went away! You see my dear Cadichon, that we still love you!”
+
+“He has really become good,” said Maud.
+
+“And he has lost that insolent air he used to have,” said Beatrice.
+
+“And he bites his comrade and the watch dogs, no longer,” said
+Elizabeth.
+
+“And he lets himself be saddled and bridled without trouble,” said
+Louis.
+
+Helen—“And he doesn’t eat the bouquets, I hold in my hand.”
+
+Ruth—“And he doesn’t kick any more when we mount him.”
+
+William—“And he doesn’t run after my pony any more to bite his tail.”
+
+James—“And he has saved all our fruits and vegetables by causing the
+arrest of these robbers.”
+
+Henry—“And he has broken their hands with his feet.”
+
+Elizabeth—“But how could he cause the arrest of the robbers?”
+
+William—“We do not know all the particulars, but the household was
+aroused by his brayings. Papa, my uncles and some servants went out,
+and saw Cadichon galloping up and down from the house to the garden;
+following him with lanterns till he came to the end of the wall around
+the kitchen garden, they there found these two men, unconscious whom
+they discovered to be robbers.”
+
+James—“How could they tell these men were robbers? do not robbers look
+and dress like us?”
+
+Elizabeth—“Indeed they are not like us! I have seen a band of robbers,
+they wore pointed hats, and chestnut colored mantles and they had such
+wicked countenances and enormous mustaches.”
+
+“Oh! where did you see them and when?” exclaimed all the children at
+once.
+
+Elizabeth—“I saw them, last winter, at the Franconia theatre.”
+
+Henry—“Ah! ah! ah! What nonsense! I thought you meant real robbers,
+that you had met in some of your travels, and I was astonished at never
+having heard my uncle and aunt mention it.”
+
+“Certainly, sir, they were real robbers,” answered Elizabeth quite
+piqued, “the soldiers fought against them, and killed some and took
+some prisoners. There was nothing funny about it; I was much frightened
+and some of the poor soldiers were wounded.”
+
+William—“Ah! ah! ah! how silly you are! you saw what we call a drama,
+which is played by paid men, who repeat it every night.”
+
+Elizabeth—“How can they repeat it when they are killed?”
+
+William—“They only pretend to be killed or wounded, they are as sound
+as you or I.”
+
+Elizabeth—“How then did papa and my uncles know these men were robbers?”
+
+William—“Because knives to kill people were found in their pockets,
+and—”
+
+“But those knives to kill people, how are they made?” interrupted James.
+
+William—“Like—like, all other knives.”
+
+James—“Then how could you tell that they were to kill people? Perhaps
+they were to cut their bread?”
+
+William—“You worry me James, you always want to understand everything,
+and you interrupted me, just as I was going to tell you, that papers
+were found on them, revealing their plans; it was all written down what
+they were to do, steal our vegetables, and kill the priest and many
+other people.”
+
+James—“And why were they not going to kill us?”
+
+Elizabeth—“Because they know papa and my uncles are very brave, that
+they have pistols and guns, and also that we all would have helped.”
+
+Henry—“You would be famous assistance, indeed, if any one were to
+attack us.”
+
+Elizabeth—“I would be as brave as you, sir, and I would know very well
+how to pull the robbers by the legs to prevent their killing papa.”
+
+Maud—“Come, come; don’t quarrel, but let William tell us what he heard.”
+
+Elizabeth—“It is not necessary for William to tell us what we already
+know.”
+
+William—“Then why ask me how papa discovered that these men were
+robbers?”
+
+“Masters William and Henry, master Alfred wants you,” said the
+gardener, who had just brought the vegetables for the kitchen.
+
+“Where is he?” asked William and Henry.
+
+“In the garden,” answered the gardener; “he dares not come to the
+house, for fear of meeting Cadichon.”
+
+I sighed, as I thought that poor Alfred feared me not without reason
+since the sad day I had treated him so shamefully, almost drowning him
+in a filthy ditch, after scratching him with briers and thorns, and
+nibbling the pony’s tail until he was pitched over its head.
+
+“I ought to make reparation,” said I; “what can I do, what service can
+I render him to convince him that he has no longer any reason to fear
+me?”
+
+
+
+
+XXV.
+
+THE REPARATION.
+
+
+Whilst I vainly pondered a means of convincing Alfred of my repentance,
+the children approached the spot where I browsed and meditated at the
+same time. I saw that Alfred kept at a distance and regarded me with
+mistrust.
+
+William—“It is going to be warm to-day, and I don’t think it will be
+pleasant to go far. It would be better for us to remain in the shady
+park.”
+
+Alfred—“William is right, I have never regained my strength since
+that spell of sickness which nearly brought me to the grave, and
+consequently I am very easily fatigued.”
+
+Henry—“You must owe Cadichon a grudge, since he was the cause of your
+illness.”
+
+Alfred—“I do not believe he did it purposely, he was probably
+frightened at something on the road, and jumped aside, accidentally
+pitching me into that frightful ditch. So I do not hate him, but—”
+
+William—“But what?”
+
+“But,” said Alfred, blushing slightly, “I would rather not get on him
+again.”
+
+The poor boy’s generosity touched me, and increased my regret at having
+treated him so badly.
+
+Maud and Beatrice now proposed to do some cooking. The children had
+built in their garden an oven, which they heated with dry wood,
+gathering it themselves, and this proposition was joyfully received.
+
+They ran to get kitchen aprons and returned to their garden prepared
+for work. Alfred and William brought the wood; breaking each branch in
+two, they filled their oven.
+
+Before kindling the fire, they held a consultation as to what they
+should have for breakfast.
+
+“I wish an omelet,” said Maud.
+
+Beatrice—“I, coffee and whipped cream.”
+
+Elizabeth—“I, cutlets.”
+
+William—“I, cold veal with vinegar sauce.”
+
+Henry—“I, potato salad.”
+
+James—“I, strawberries and cream.”
+
+Louis—“I, slices of bread and butter.”
+
+Helen—“I, grated sugar.”
+
+Ruth—“And I, cherries.”
+
+Alfred—“I will cut the bread, set the table, prepare the wine and
+water, and help generally.”
+
+And each one went to the kitchen to get materials for the desired dish.
+Maud brought eggs, butter, salt, pepper, a fork and a frying pan.
+
+[Illustration: Alfred and William brought the wood.—(Page 240.)]
+
+“I must have some fire to melt my butter and cook my eggs,” said
+she. “Alfred, Alfred, some fire, if you please.”
+
+“Where must I kindle it?”
+
+“Near the oven, be quick, I am beating my eggs.”
+
+“Alfred, Alfred,” called out Beatrice, “run to the kitchen and get the
+coffee for the whipped cream, I forgot it, be quick.”
+
+“I must kindle the fire for Maud.”
+
+“You can do that afterwards, run quick and get my coffee, now it will
+not take you long, and I am in a hurry.”
+
+Alfred started off in a run.
+
+“Alfred, Alfred,” said Elizabeth, “I must have some embers and a
+gridiron for my cutlets; I have cut them nicely.”
+
+Alfred, who ran with the coffee, set out again for the gridiron.
+
+“I must have oil for my vinegar sauce,” said William.
+
+“And I, vinegar for my salad,” said Henry, “quick, Alfred with the oil
+and vinegar.”
+
+Alfred who had just brought the gridiron, returned for the vinegar and
+oil.
+
+“Oh! my fire!” said Maud, “is that how you light it, Alfred? My eggs
+are beaten, you are going to make me lose my omelet.”
+
+“My commissions have been so numerous, I have not had time to light the
+fire.”
+
+“And the coals?” cried Elizabeth, “where are you, Alfred? you have
+forgotten my coals!”
+
+“No, Elizabeth, I have not been able to get them, I have been kept
+running.”
+
+“Hurry, Alfred, or I shall not have time to broil my cutlets,” was the
+reply.
+
+“And I must have a knife to cut my slices of bread,” said Louis, “bring
+a knife, quick, Alfred.”
+
+“I have no sugar for my strawberries, grate the sugar, Helen, hurry,”
+said James.
+
+“I have grated till I am tired,” she answered, “I am going to rest a
+little—I am so thirsty!”
+
+“Eat some cherries,” said Ruth, “I am thirsty, too.”
+
+“And so am I,” chimed in James, “I am going to taste a few to refresh
+myself.”
+
+“I shall do the same,” added Louis, “it is very fatiguing to cut bread.”
+
+And the four little ones surrounded the basket of cherries.
+
+“Let us sit down,” said Ruth, “it will be more convenient whilst
+refreshing ourselves.”
+
+They refreshed themselves so well that they ate every cherry. When the
+basket was empty they looked anxiously at one another.
+
+“They are all gone,” said Ruth.
+
+“We are going to get scolded,” answered Helen.
+
+“Oh! what shall we do?” inquired Louis, anxiously.
+
+“Ask Cadichon to come to our aid,” said James.
+
+“What do you want Cadichon to do?” replied Louis, “he cannot make
+cherries appear in the basket when we have eaten them all!”
+
+“He might do what amounts to the same,” said James. “Cadichon, my good
+Cadichon, come to our aid, see this empty basket and try to fill it.”
+
+I was very near the four little gourmands.
+
+James put the empty basket under my nose to help me understand what
+he wanted. I smelt it and started off in a trot; going to the kitchen
+where I had seen some one take a basket of cherries, I seized the
+basket between my teeth, trotted off with it and deposited it in the
+midst of the children, still seated around the stones and stems in
+their plates.
+
+A cry of joy greeted my return. The others turned around at this and
+inquired the meaning of it.
+
+“It is Cadichon! Cadichon!” exclaimed James.
+
+“Don’t tell,” said Ruth, “they will know then that we ate up the other
+cherries.”
+
+“Well, suppose they do know it,” answered James, “I wish them also to
+know how kind and intelligent Cadichon is.”
+
+And running to them, he told how I had repaired their greediness.
+Instead of scolding the four little ones, they praised James’s
+frankness and bestowed the highest eulogiums upon my intelligence.
+
+Meanwhile Alfred had kindled Maud’s fire, and brought Elizabeth’s
+coals; Maud cooked her omelet, Beatrice finished her cream, Elizabeth
+her cutlets, William cut his veal in slices preparatory to making the
+seasoning, Henry stirred and stirred his potato salad; James made a
+mush of strawberries and cream, Louis cut a pile of buttered bread,
+Helen grated sugar until the sugar bowl was empty, Ruth picked over the
+basket of cherries, whilst Alfred breathless and in a perspiration,
+set the table, ran for fresh water to cool the wine, and vessels of
+radishes, cucumbers, sardines and olives to ornament the table. He had
+forgotten the salt, he had not thought of the covers, glasses were
+wanting, May bugs and gnats had fallen into the goblets and on plates.
+When, at last, everything was ready and on the table, Maud, clapping
+her hands to her forehead, exclaimed:
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Ah! We have forgotten one thing, to ask our mammas’ permission to
+breakfast out-doors on a meal of our own preparation.”
+
+“Let us go at once,” was the unanimous answer; “Alfred will keep guard
+over the breakfast.”
+
+And, darting towards the house, they rushed into the parlor, where
+their papas and mammas were assembled.
+
+The sudden appearance of all these children, red, breathless, arrayed
+in kitchen aprons like scullions, quite surprised their parents.
+
+Each one ran to his or her mamma, and asked the required permission
+with such volubility that, at first, it was impossible to know what
+they meant. After a few questions and explanations, it was granted,
+and they hastened back to Alfred and their breakfast. But Alfred had
+disappeared.
+
+“Alfred! Alfred!” they cried.
+
+“Here I am, here I am,” answered a voice apparently from the skies.
+
+Looking up, they perceived Alfred, perched in an oak tree. He began to
+descend slowly and cautiously.
+
+“What made you climb up there?” said William and Henry; “what a strange
+idea that was!”
+
+Alfred made no reply, but continued to get down, and when he had
+reached the ground the children were surprised to see him pale and
+trembling.
+
+“Why did you climb that tree, Alfred? what has happened to you?” said
+Beatrice.
+
+“If it had not been for Cadichon, you would not have found me or your
+breakfast either; I climbed the oak tree to save my life.”
+
+“Do tell us what has happened!” said William; “how could Cadichon save
+your life and our breakfast?”
+
+“Let us take our places at the table and listen whilst we eat, I am
+dying of hunger,” said Maud.
+
+They seated themselves on the grass, around the table-cloth; Maud
+helped to her omelet, which was excellent; and Elizabeth, in turn,
+to her cutlets, which were very nice, but cooked a little too much.
+The rest of the breakfast followed, everything turning out quite
+satisfactorily. Whilst they ate, Alfred recounted the following:
+
+“You had scarcely started ere the two big farm dogs, attracted by
+the smell of food, came running to the spot. I seized a stick, and,
+brandishing it before them, tried to drive them off, but in vain; they
+could not resist the sight of the cutlets, the omelet, the bread,
+the butter, the cream; instead of flying from my stick, which they
+little feared, they rushed at me; I threw the stick at the head of the
+biggest, and it jumped on my back—”
+
+“How could it jump on your back?” said Henry; “he went behind you, did
+he?”
+
+“No,” said Alfred, blushing; “but, having thrown my stick at him, I had
+no means of defense, and you can certainly understand the folly of my
+letting myself be devoured by hungry dogs.”
+
+“Oh! I understand now,” replied Henry in a tone of raillery, “it was
+you who turned upon your heel to escape.”
+
+[Illustration: The other dog leaped at me.—(Page 251.)]
+
+“I was running to find you and the beasts were running after me,
+when Cadichon came to my assistance. Seizing the biggest dog by the
+skin of the back, he shook him well, whilst I sought safety by climbing
+a tree. The other dog leaped at me, caught me by my clothes, and would
+have torn me to pieces, had not Cadichon rescued me from this animal
+also. Giving a good final bite to the first dog, and throwing him up in
+the air whence he fell a few steps farther off, bruised and bleeding,
+Cadichon now seized the tail of the dog that held me, which act freed
+me at once, for, of course, my assailant immediately relinquished his
+hold. After pulling him a little distance, Cadichon turned around with
+incredible agility, and gave him a kick on the jaw bone that must have
+broken several teeth. The two dogs went off yelping, and I was about to
+descend when you came.”
+
+All admired my courage and presence of mind, and came up to me, loading
+me with caresses and praises.
+
+“You see now for yourselves,” said James, with a triumphant air and
+sparkling eyes, “that my friend Cadichon has become excellent, I don’t
+know whether you care for him or not, but I do more than ever. We will
+always be the best of friends, won’t we Cadichon?”
+
+I did my best to respond with a joyful bray; the children laughed and
+resuming their seats at the table, continued their repast. Beatrice now
+served her cream.
+
+“That’s good cream!” said James.
+
+“I wish some more,” said Louis.
+
+“And I, and I,” cried Helen and Ruth. Beatrice was much pleased with
+her success. Indeed, every dish had given such satisfaction, that
+the table was entirely cleared. Poor James, however, had a slight
+humiliation. His charge was the strawberries and cream. He had sugared
+his cream and poured it over the stemmed strawberries, making a very
+nice looking dish. Unfortunately for him, he finished before the
+others. Seeing there was plenty of time, he concluded to improve it and
+his dish together, by mashing the berries in the cream. He crushed and
+he crushed, so long and so well, that the result was a thick pap, quite
+nice to the taste, but very uninviting in appearance.
+
+Then James’s turn arrived to serve the strawberries.
+
+“Oh! what are you giving me,” exclaimed Maud, “what is it? red pap?
+What is it made of?”
+
+“It is not red pap,” answered James somewhat confused, “it is
+strawberries and cream, and very nice, I assure you, Maud; taste it,
+and you will see.”
+
+“Strawberries?” said Beatrice, “where are the strawberries? I see none.
+This stuff looks disgusting.”
+
+“Oh! yes, it is disgusting,” echoed all the rest.
+
+“I thought they would be nicer crushed,” said poor little James, his
+eyes full of tears. “But if you wish it, I will go quickly and pick
+some more strawberries, and get some cream from the house.”
+
+“No, no, James,” said Elizabeth, touched at his gentleness, “your
+cream is, no doubt, very nice. Give me some, I will eat it with great
+pleasure.”
+
+James’s face brightened, he kissed Elizabeth and helped her most
+bountifully.
+
+The other children, softened like Elizabeth by James’s mildness
+and good will, asked for some of his dish, and all, after tasting,
+pronounced it excellent, much better indeed than if the berries had
+been whole.
+
+Little James, who had been anxiously watching their countenances as
+they tasted his cream, became radiant when he saw the success of his
+invention; he partook of it himself, and although not much remained for
+him, there was enough to make him regret not having made more.
+
+Breakfast over, they washed the dishes in a large tub, that had been
+accidentally left out, and filled during the night from the rainspout.
+
+This was not the least amusing part of the business, and it was still
+in progress when the study bell sounded, and their parents called them
+to their books. They begged a quarter of an hour’s grace, to finish
+wiping the dishes and putting them away. It was granted, and before the
+expiration of the time, everything was carried back to the kitchen, put
+in its place, the children at their studies, and Alfred having said
+good-bye, was about to start home.
+
+Before leaving, he called me to him, and seeing that I approached, he
+ran to me, caressing and thanking me by his words and pattings for the
+service I had rendered him. I received this expression of gratitude
+with pleasure. It confirmed me in the opinion that Alfred was much
+better than I had at first judged him, that he was neither revengeful
+nor malicious, and also, that if somewhat cowardly and stupid, it was
+not his fault.
+
+I had occasion a few days afterwards to render him a new service.
+
+
+
+
+XXVII.
+
+THE BOAT.
+
+
+James—“What a pity we cannot cook a breakfast every day, as we did last
+week, it was so amusing!”
+
+Louis—“And what a good breakfast!”
+
+Maud—“The best thing to me was the potato salad and veal with vinegar
+sauce.”
+
+Beatrice—“I know why very well; it is because your mamma forbids you
+eating such things constantly.”
+
+“Very likely,” said Maud, laughing, “what we seldom get to eat always
+appears best, especially when it is something we like naturally.”
+
+William—“What shall we do to-day for amusement?”
+
+Elizabeth—“Sure enough, it is Thursday, we have holiday until dinner.”
+
+Henry—“If we could get a mess of fish from the big pond—”
+
+Maud—“What a splendid idea! we will have a dish of fish for to-morrow,
+Friday!”
+
+Beatrice—“How will we fish? have we fishing lines?”
+
+William—“We have hooks enough but we want rods.”
+
+Henry—“Shall we send one of the servants to the village to buy them?”
+
+William—“They are not sold in the village, we would have to send to the
+city and that is very far.”
+
+Maud—“Oh! here comes Alfred, perhaps they have some lines at his house;
+and we can send some one on the pony for them.”
+
+James—“I will ride over on Cadichon.”
+
+Henry—“You cannot go so far alone.”
+
+James—“It is not far, only half a league.”
+
+“What is it, my friends, you are going to get with Cadichon?” said
+Alfred as he came up.
+
+William—“Fishing lines; have you any, Alfred?”
+
+Alfred—“No; and there is no necessity for going so far; with knives, we
+can make as many ourselves, as we want.”
+
+Henry—“To be sure! why did we not think of it before?”
+
+Alfred—“Come quick to the woods to cut them. Have you knives? mine is
+in my pocket.”
+
+William—“I have an excellent one that Maud brought me from London.”
+
+Henry—“And I also have one that Beatrice gave me.”
+
+James—“I have one.”
+
+Louis—“And I.”
+
+“Come along then,” said Alfred, “whilst we cut the rods, you may strip
+off the bark and little twigs.”
+
+“And what shall we do in the meantime?” asked Maud, Beatrice and
+Elizabeth.
+
+“Make the other necessary preparations,” said William: “get the bread,
+the worms, the hooks.”
+
+And they all dispersed, each one to his or her post.
+
+I then went very quietly towards the pond, and in something over half
+an hour, the children arrived, running each one with his line, and
+bringing the hooks and other necessary appurtenances.
+
+“We must beat the water, must we not, to bring the fish to the
+surface,” said Henry.
+
+William—“Just the contrary, we must keep quiet as possible, for if we
+frighten the fish, they will all go down to the bottom in the mud.”
+
+Maud—“I think a good way of attracting them, would be to throw some
+crumbs of bread in the water.”
+
+Beatrice—“Yes, but not much; if we feed them plentifully, they will not
+bite at the hooks.”
+
+Elizabeth—“Let me do it, you prepare the hooks, whilst I throw in the
+bread.”
+
+Elizabeth took the bread, and at the first crumb she threw, half a
+dozen fish pounced upon it. She repeated the process, assisted by
+Louis, James, Helen and Ruth, until the fish were surfeited and would
+eat no more.
+
+“I believe we have given them too much,” said Elizabeth in an undertone
+to Louis and James.
+
+James—“What difference does that make? they will eat the rest this
+evening or to-morrow.”
+
+Elizabeth—“But they won’t bite at the bait now, they are no longer
+hungry.”
+
+James—“Oh! oh! our cousins will be displeased.”
+
+Elizabeth—“Say nothing about it, they are busy with their hooks;
+perhaps the fish will bite all the same.”
+
+“The lines are ready,” said William; “each of you take one and cast it
+in the water.”
+
+They did so, and waited a few minutes in breathless silence; the fish
+would not bite.
+
+Alfred—“This is not a good place, let us go farther.”
+
+Helen—“I believe there are no fish here, look at those bread crumbs not
+eaten.”
+
+Maud—“Let us go to the end of this pond, near the boat.”
+
+William—“The water is very deep there.”
+
+Elizabeth—“What difference does that make? Are you afraid the fish will
+be drowned?”
+
+William—“Not the fish, but one of us might fall in.”
+
+Henry—“How would we fall in? we are not going near enough to the edge
+to slip or roll in.”
+
+William—“Very true, but for all that, I do not wish the little ones to
+go there.”
+
+James—“Oh! yes, William, do let me go with you? we will keep at a
+distance from the water.”
+
+William—“No, no, stay where you are; we will soon be back, for I don’t
+think we will find any more fish there than here. Moreover,” he added,
+lowering his voice, “it is your fault we have caught none, you gave the
+fish ten times too much bread, I saw the whole thing; I do not wish to
+tell Henry, Alfred, Maud and Beatrice, but it is only right that you
+should be punished for your thoughtlessness.”
+
+James insisted no more, but told the other little culprits what William
+had said. They resigned themselves to remain where they were, and
+continued to throw their lines, still wishing the fish would bite, and
+still meeting with no success.
+
+I had followed William, Henry and Alfred to the end of the pond. They
+also cast their lines, but it was of no use; in vain did they move, and
+change their hooks, the fish would not bite.
+
+“Friends,” said Alfred, “I have an excellent idea, instead of worrying
+ourselves waiting for the fish to come to us, let us fish on a big
+scale, and take fifteen or twenty at a time.”
+
+William—“How can we take fifteen or twenty at a time, when we have not
+taken one yet?”
+
+Alfred—“With a sweep-net.”
+
+Henry—“But it is very difficult to manage; papa says, one must
+understand it.”
+
+Alfred—“Difficult! what nonsense! I have cast the sweep-net myself ten,
+yes, twenty times! It is very easy.”
+
+William—“Did you take many fish?”
+
+Alfred—“I did not take any because I did not cast it in the water.”
+
+Henry—“Where then, and how did you cast it, if not in the water?”
+
+Alfred—“On the grass or the ground, only to learn how.”
+
+William—“But that is not the same thing at all, I am sure you would
+cast it very awkwardly on the water.”
+
+Alfred—“Awkwardly! Do you really think that? I will convince you of
+the contrary. I am going to get the sweep-net which lies in the yard,
+drying in the sun.”
+
+William—“Please don’t Alfred, if anything should happen, papa would
+scold.”
+
+Alfred—“And what can happen? I tell you, that at home, we always fish
+with it. I am going, wait for me, I’ll not be long.”
+
+And away ran Alfred, leaving William and Henry anxious and
+dissatisfied. He soon returned dragging the sweep-net after him.
+
+“Here it is,” said he, spreading it out on the ground. “Now fish,
+beware!”
+
+He cast the net with tolerable dexterity, and began to draw it in
+cautiously and slowly.
+
+“Draw it in faster,” said Henry, “we will never finish at that rate.”
+
+“No, no,” replied Alfred, “it must be drawn very gently, so as not to
+break the meshes and let the fish escape.”
+
+He continued to draw it “very gently,” as he said, but only to find it
+empty, not one fish had been caught.
+
+“Oh!” said he, “the first time does not count, we must not be
+discouraged, let us commence again.”
+
+He did commence again, and succeeded no better the second time than the
+first.
+
+“I know what is the matter,” said he, “I am too near the edge of the
+pond, the water is not deep enough here, I am going to get in the boat,
+which is very long, consequently, the farther end of it will give me
+sufficient depth of water to unfold my net.”
+
+“No, Alfred,” said William, “keep away from the boat; you may get that
+sweep-net entangled in the oars, or cordages and have an upset.”
+
+“William, you are just like a two year old baby,” replied Alfred, “for
+my part I have more courage, you’ll see the result.”
+
+And he darted into the boat, which swayed from side to side. Although
+he pretended to laugh, Alfred was really afraid, and I saw that he
+would inevitably make a blunder, or do some mischief. He unfolded and
+spread out his net, notwithstanding the motion of the boat; but his
+knees shook under him and his hands were unsteady. Self-love, however,
+urged him on, and he cast the net. But the movement being arrested by
+his fear of falling, the net caught on his left shoulder, and gave him
+such a jerk that he fell headlong into the water. William and Henry
+uttered a scream of terror, in unison with that which escaped the
+unfortunate boy as he fell. Being enveloped in the net which crippled
+all his movements, his efforts to regain the shore were in vain. The
+more he struggled, the more entangled he became in the net. I saw him
+gradually sinking, a few minutes more and he would have been beyond
+hope. William and Henry could give him no assistance, neither of them
+knowing how to swim, and before they could have run for help, Alfred
+must certainly have perished.
+
+[Illustration: I climbed the very steep bank, still dragging
+Alfred.—(Page 263.)]
+
+I decided upon my part at once; resolutely plunging into the water,
+I swam towards him, and diving (for he had already sunk considerably
+beneath the surface), I seized with my teeth the net which enveloped
+him. Then swimming back, pulling it after me, I climbed the very steep
+bank, still dragging Alfred (no doubt giving him a few bruises on the
+stones and roots in our path,) and laid him on the grass, motionless
+and unconscious.
+
+William and Henry, pale and trembling, ran to him, and with
+considerable difficulty, succeeded in ridding him of the net which was
+wrapped around him. They then sent Maud and Beatrice to the house for
+help.
+
+The little ones, who, from a distance had seen Alfred fall, also
+came running to the spot, and assisted William and Henry to wipe his
+face and dripping hair. The servants soon appeared, and lifting the
+unconscious Alfred from the grass carried him to the house. The other
+children remained with me.
+
+“You splendid Cadichon!” exclaimed James, “it was you who saved
+Alfred’s life! Did you all see how courageously he plunged into the
+water?”
+
+Louis—“Yes, certainly, and how he dived to get hold of Alfred.”
+
+Elizabeth—“And how carefully he drew Alfred to the shore.”
+
+James—“Poor Cadichon! how wet he is!”
+
+Helen—“Don’t go near him James, you will get your clothes wet, just
+look how the water drips off of him.”
+
+“Ah! bah! what difference does it make if I am a little wet?” answered
+James, putting his arms around my neck, “I shall not be as wet as
+Cadichon.”
+
+Louis—“Instead of hugging him and paying him compliments, you had
+better take him to the stable, and let us rub him down with a little
+straw, and then give him some oats to warm him up and revive him.”
+
+James—“That is true, you are right. Come, my Cadichon.”
+
+I followed James and Louis who went towards the stable, making me a
+sign to follow them. Both began to rub me down with such vehemence
+that they were soon in a perspiration, but for all that, neither of
+them would stop until I was dry. Meanwhile, Helen and Ruth employed
+themselves combing and brushing my tail and mane. I was superb when
+they had all finished, and I partook with extraordinary appetite, of
+the oats which James and Louis gave me.
+
+“Helen,” said little Ruth in a low tone to her cousin, “Cadichon has a
+great quantity of oats, he has too many.”
+
+Helen—“That’s no matter, Ruth; he has been very good, and we have given
+him the oats as a reward.”
+
+Ruth—“I would like to have a few of his oats myself.”
+
+Helen—“For what?”
+
+Ruth—“To give our poor rabbits, that love oats so much, and never get
+any.”
+
+Helen—“If James and Louis see you taking oats from Cadichon, they will
+scold.”
+
+Ruth—“They shall not see me, I will wait until they are not looking.”
+
+Helen—“Then you will be a thief, for you would be stealing oats from
+poor Cadichon, who cannot complain, because he cannot speak.”
+
+[Illustration: Ruth ran joyously to her rabbits.—(Page 268.)]
+
+“So I would,” said Ruth sadly, “My poor rabbits would be too glad to
+have a few oats.” And she seated herself near my trough and watched me
+as I ate.
+
+“Why are you sitting there, Ruth?” asked Helen. “Come with me to
+inquire for Alfred.”
+
+“No,” said Ruth, “I would rather wait till Cadichon finishes eating,
+so that if he leaves any oats, I can take them for my rabbits without
+stealing.”
+
+Helen insisted, but Ruth refused to go, and Helen at last went off with
+her cousins.
+
+I ate slowly, wishing to see if Ruth would yield even once to the
+temptation of regaling her rabbits at my expense. From time to time she
+looked in the trough.
+
+“How he eats,” said she, “he will never finish—he cannot be hungry, for
+he is always eating—the oats are disappearing, if he would leave only a
+few, I should be so delighted.”
+
+I could easily have eaten all that was before me, but the poor little
+girl excited my pity. She touched nothing in spite of her desire to
+regale the rabbits. Pretending to have enough, I quit my trough,
+leaving the half of my oats; Ruth uttered a cry of joy, leaped to her
+feet, and taking the oats by the handful emptied them into her black
+taffetta apron.
+
+“Oh! how kind you are, how obliging you are, my dear good Cadichon,”
+said she. “I never saw such a donkey as you—It is very genteel not to
+be a glutton—Everybody loves you because you are good—The rabbits will
+be so pleased! I will tell them, it was you that gave them their oats.”
+
+And Ruth who had finished gathering up the oats and putting them in her
+apron, ran joyously to her rabbits. I saw her reach their little house,
+and I heard her tell them how good I was, that I was not the least bit
+of a glutton—that they must follow my example, and as I had left some
+oats for them, so ought they to leave some for the little birds.
+
+“I will soon return,” said she, “to see if you are as good as Cadichon.”
+
+She shut their door and ran to join Helen.
+
+Following her to hear something from Alfred, I was delighted on
+approaching the castle, to see him seated on the grass with his
+friends. He arose, and coming to me, covered me with caresses.
+
+“Here is my deliverer,” said he; “but for him I would have died, I
+became unconscious at the very moment, when Cadichon having seized
+the net, began to draw me to land; but I have a distinct recollection
+of seeing him plunge in the water and dive to save me. I shall never
+forget the service he has rendered me, and I shall never come here
+without speaking to Cadichon.”
+
+“That is right, Alfred,” said the grandmother. “He who has a good
+heart, is no less grateful to the lower animals than to men. As for me,
+I shall always remember Cadichon’s services, and happen what will, I am
+determined never to part with him.”
+
+“But grandmother,” said Maud, “a few months ago you talked of sending
+him to the mill. He would have been very miserable there.”
+
+[Illustration: “Here is my deliverer.”—(Page 268.)]
+
+“Yes, dear child, but I did not send him; I did think of it, it is
+true, after the trick he played Alfred, both because of it, and the
+numberless complaints from everyone on the place. But I decided to
+keep him in acknowledgment of his former services, and I now say, that
+not only shall he remain, but everything shall be done to render him
+comfortable and happy.”
+
+“Oh! thanks, grandma, thanks,” exclaimed James, throwing his arms
+around his grandmother’s neck and almost pulling her to the ground.
+“Let me be the one to take charge of my dear Cadichon, I shall love him
+and he will love me more than he does any one else.”
+
+“Why, my little James, do you wish Cadichon to care more for you than
+for the others? That is not right.”
+
+“Yes, yes, grandma, it is right, for I love him more than they do, and
+besides, when he was bad, and everybody displeased with him, I still
+cared a little for him, indeed, I might say, a great deal,” he added,
+laughing, “Isn’t it so, Cadichon?”
+
+I answered by coming up to him and laying my head on his shoulders.
+Everybody laughed and James continued:
+
+“Now, cousins, are you willing for Cadichon to love me more than he
+does you?”
+
+“Yes, yes, yes,” they all answered, laughing.
+
+“And haven’t I always cared more for him than the rest of you have?”
+
+“Yes, yes, yes,” was the unanimous reply.
+
+“You see, grandma, that since it was I who brought Cadichon here, and
+it is I who love him best, it is only fair that he should love me best.”
+
+“I can say no more, dear child,” said the grandmother, smiling, “but
+you cannot take care of him when you are not here.”
+
+“But I shall always be here, grandma,” said James, eagerly.
+
+“No, my dear child, you will not always be here, for your papa and
+mamma take you away when they go.”
+
+James became pensive and sad, he put his arm upon my neck and rested
+his head on his hand. Suddenly his face brightened.
+
+“Grandma,” said he, “will you give me Cadichon?”
+
+“I will give you whatever you wish, my dear little one, but I cannot
+let you take him to Paris with you.”
+
+“No, to be sure not; but then he will belong to me, and when papa has a
+castle we will take Cadichon.”
+
+“I give him to you on that condition, my child, meanwhile he will stay
+here where in all probability he will outlive me. Do not forget then
+that Cadichon is yours, and to you is entrusted the charge of making
+him comfortable and happy.”
+
+
+
+
+Conclusion.
+
+From that day my little master James seemed to love me more than
+ever, whilst I, in turn, did my very best to make myself useful and
+agreeable, not only to him, but to everyone about the place. I had no
+reason to repent of my reformation, for it gained me the esteem and
+affection of all. I continued to watch over the children, preserving
+them from several accidents, and protecting them against bad people and
+wicked animals.
+
+Alfred was often at the castle, and he never forgot his promised visit
+to me, always bringing me some delicacy, an apple, a pear, bread and
+salt of which I was particularly fond, a handful of lettuce or some
+carrots—always something that he knew I fancied, which fully convinced
+me how much mistaken I had been in my former opinion of the poor boy,
+believing him bad, when he was only a little foolish and vain.
+
+The idea of writing the story of my adventures was prompted by a
+series of conversations between Henry and his cousins; Henry always
+maintaining that I did not understand what I did nor why I did it,
+his cousins, James especially, as stoutly asserting the contrary. I
+profited by a very severe winter, which did not permit of my remaining
+out-doors, to jot down some of the most important events of my life.
+They may amuse you, perhaps, my young friends; at any rate, they will
+teach you, that if you wish faithful service, you must treat kindly
+those who serve you—that they who appear the most stupid are not always
+so—that a donkey like everything else, has a heart to love his masters
+and suffer from bad treatment, a will to be revenged or to show his
+affection—that it depends upon his masters to make him either happy
+or unhappy, a friend or an enemy, poor donkey as he is. I, myself, am
+very happy, loved by every one, and cared for as a friend by my little
+master James. I am beginning to grow old, but we donkeys sometimes live
+a long time, and just as long as I am able to walk and be of any use
+whatever, my services are at the disposal of my masters.
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+  JOHN B. PIET,
+  PUBLISHER AND PRINTER,
+  BALTIMORE.
+
+
+
+
+  Transcriber’s Notes
+
+  pg 26 Changed: As he eat, his tears ceased to flow
+             To: As he ate, his tears ceased to flow
+
+  pg 45 Changed: “Madamoiselle,” said she, “your mama has sent for you
+             To: “Mademoiselle,” said she, “your mama has sent for you
+
+  pg 54 Changed: support the fatiques and privations I have endured
+             To: support the fatigues and privations I have endured
+
+  pg 72 Changed: Isn’t he good, grandma, isn’t he? and musn’t we keep
+                 him?
+             To: Isn’t he good, grandma, isn’t he? and mustn’t we keep
+                 him?
+
+  pg 72 Changed: but she does not own him, he belengs to nobody
+             To: but she does not own him, he belongs to nobody
+
+  pg 84 Changed: and before they killed you,” answerd Beatrice
+             To: and before they killed you,” answered Beatrice
+
+  pg 115 Changed: Laughing at the young gunners’ discomfitted air
+              To: Laughing at the young gunners’ discomfited air
+
+  pg 139 Changed: No, you havn’t, the godfather has the best right
+              To: No, you haven’t, the godfather has the best right
+
+  pg 175 Changed: This unusual noise attracked the attention of all
+              To: This unusual noise attracted the attention of all
+
+  pg 175 Changed: young and old, had decended and formed a circle
+              To: young and old, had descended and formed a circle
+
+  pg 179 Changed: money necessary for their subsistance
+              To: money necessary for their subsistence
+
+  pg 188 Changed: must we not, dear ones?” sad Elizabeth.
+              To: must we not, dear ones?” said Elizabeth.
+
+  pg 193 Changed: He is better,” exlaimed James
+              To: He is better,” exclaimed James
+
+  pg 199 Changed: and indulged in penitent reflexions
+              To: and indulged in penitent reflections
+
+  pg 199 Changed: then pass my beautful ornamented bridle
+              To: then pass my beautiful ornamented bridle
+
+  pg 202 Changed: in reparation of the wrong I dad done him
+              To: in reparation of the wrong I had done him
+
+  pg 213 Changed: I waltzed, I polkied, and, I played on Ferdinand
+              To: I waltzed, I polkaed, and, I played on Ferdinand
+
+  pg 214 Changed: How prettily he files off,” said Ferdinand
+              To: How prettily he flies off,” said Ferdinand
+
+  pg 227 Changed: where they have commited numberless and audacious
+                  thefts
+              To: where they have committed numberless and audacious
+                  thefts
+
+  pg 228 Changed: you may assist at the exemination
+              To: you may assist at the examination
+
+  pg 230 Changed: Just wherever I could by cider
+              To: Just wherever I could buy cider
+
+  pg 231 Changed: a nickname given him at the prison in dirision
+              To: a nickname given him at the prison in derision
+
+  pg 251 Changed: and I was about to decend when you came
+              To: and I was about to descend when you came
+
+  pg 253 Changed: there was enought to make him regret
+              To: there was enough to make him regret
+
+  pg 260 Changed: his left shoulder, and gave him sech a jerk
+              To: his left shoulder, and gave him such a jerk
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78917 ***