Chapter 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.

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.

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.”

“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.

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!”