Chapter 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!”

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.