Chapter 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.