Chapter 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.

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!”

“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.

“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.