Oh, if only my daughter could have got her hands on that dog, she’d bite its throat, fling it down to suffocate in the dust!
Dédèche got over the wounds inflicted by its fangs, but his back and legs still felt weak and painful.
He started peeing all over the place. When he was outside, he’d make water like a tap, as much as he could, pleased to have saved us trouble, but indoors, almost at once, he couldn’t stop. As soon as you turned your back, he’d turn his at the foot of a piece of furniture and you could hear my daughter crying the same monotonous warning: “Quick, a sponge, some water, some sulfur!”
We got angry, shouted at him, and made threatening gestures, but it was no good; he gave us an understanding look, as if to say: “Yes, I know, but what can I do about it?”
He was still kind and affectionate, but sometimes his back was arched as if his spine could still feel the teeth of that poacher’s dog.
And in the end, he started giving off such a smell that it forced even his least outspoken friends to use strong language.
Even my daughter was beginning to harden her heart.
Dédèche had to go.
It was quite simple: you insert two powders, potassium cyanide and tartaric acid, into a cut you’ve made in a piece of meat and you carefully stitch it up with a very fine thread. First you give a little ball of meat which is harmless and then the important one. As the stomach digests this, a chemical reaction turns the two powders into hydrocyanic or prussic acid and that’s that.
I don’t want to remember who administered these two little balls.
Dédèche is lying in his basket, waiting patiently. And we are waiting, too, in the next room, slumped in armchairs, looking exhausted, and listening.
A quarter of an hour goes by, half an hour. Somebody says, quietly, “I’ll go and take a look.”
“Just five more minutes!”
Our ears are buzzing. Mightn’t one imagine that in the distance there’s a dog howling—the poacher’s dog?
One of the more courageous of us disappears and comes back and says, in a strange voice, “It’s all over!”
My daughter’s head falls back on her bed and she sobs. She’s being forced to sob, just as you break into hysterical laughter when you only wanted to laugh.
With her head in the pillow, she keeps saying, “No, I don’t want my cup of chocolate this morning!”
When her mother starts talking about husbands, she mutters that she doesn’t want to get married, ever.
The others are holding back their tears. They feel that one flood of tears would lead to another and they’d all start blubbering.
They say to Marie, “Don’t be silly, it’s not important!”
Why isn’t it important? It was a life and nobody knows what might have come of this life that we’ve just snuffed out.
Out of a sense of decency, to avoid admitting that we’re so upset by the death of a little dog, we’re thinking of all the human beings whom we’ve already lost, those we might be going to lose, all those dark, icy, mysterious things impossible to understand.
The man guilty of doing it is saying to himself: “I’m a traitor and a murderer.”
He stands and plucks up courage to go and look at his victim.
Later on, we learn that he kissed Dédèche’s tiny, warm, soft skull.
“Were his eyes open?”
“Yes, but they’re glassy, he hadn’t been able to see anything.”
“He didn’t suffer?”
“I’m sure he didn’t.”
“Or struggle?”
“All he did was stretch out his paw towards the edge of his basket, as if he was reaching out his little hand.”
THE CAT
I
MY CAT DOESN’T EAT MICE; he doesn’t like mouse-meat. He catches them for fun. When he’s played with it for quite a while, he spares its life and goes off, all innocence, to dream somewhere else, sitting in the middle of his looped tail, his head closed as tight as a fist.
But because of his claws, the mouse has died.
II
They tell him: “Take the mice and leave the birds alone.” That’s rather too subtle, and the cleverest cat is sometimes likely to make a mistake.
FLIES
THERE’S ONE SINGLE OAK in the middle of the meadow and the oxen are taking up the whole space in the shade of its leaves.
Their horns are scornfully tossing the sun away.
But for the flies, they’d be very comfortable.
But today, they really are too hungry. There are a lot of black flies and they’re very pungent, forming sooty patches as they stick themselves around eyes, nostrils, and even at the corners of lips; the green flies are particularly fond of sucking recent scratches.
Whenever an ox moves its leather apron or stomps on the dry ground with its hooves, the cloud of flies buzzes off. You’d think they’re fermenting.
It’s so hot that the old women sitting in front of their doorsteps start making jokes.
“Look out for the thunderwunder,” they’re saying.
And over there, a first flash of lightning shoots across the sky; there’s no sound. A drop of rain falls.
The oxen see the warning, lift their heads, move to the edge of the oak, and breathe, patiently.
They know the good flies are going to chase away the bad ones.
At first gently, one by one, and then thick and fast, out of a sky torn by lightning, they swoop on the enemy which gives way, little by little, fewer and fewer, as they fly away.
Soon, with water streaming from their snub noses to their indefatigable tails, the oxen will be squirming with delight under the swarm of victorious water flies.
THE COW
I
WE GOT TIRED OF TRYING to find a name for her, so we’ve given up. She’s known simply as “the cow” and it suits her very well.
And what does it matter, as long as she goes on eating!
She can have as much as she wants, fresh grass, dry hay, vegetables, grain, and even bread and salt, if she feels like it. And she eats the lot, all the time and twice over, because she chews the cud.
As soon as she sees me, she comes trotting up to meet me, light-footed on her cleft clogs, with her skin drawn up tightly from her feet, like a close-fitting white stocking. She’s sure I’m bringing her something to eat. I admire her every time but all I can say is: “Here you are, eat that!”
But from what she takes in, she makes milk, not fat.
When it’s time, she willingly offers her full udder. She never holds back her milk—there are cows which do that—and from her four supple teats, which you don’t need to tug, she generously lets her stream of milk flow until her udders empty. She never moves either her feet or her tail, but she enjoys licking the milkmaid’s back.
Although she lives alone, her appetite prevents her from being bored. She rarely moos sadly over the memory of her last calf. But she likes visitors and welcomes them by holding her horns forward and high, with her rather greedy lips dribbling and a wisp of grass hanging from them.
Men aren’t afraid of anything and stroke her overflowing belly; women are surprised that such an enormous creature should be so gentle and full of happy dreams. Their only fear now is that she might become too friendly.
II
She likes me to scratch her between her horns. I move back slightly because she’s enjoying it so much that she keeps coming towards me. The friendly creature lets me go on, and I end up with my foot in a heap of dung—her dung.
THE DEATH OF BRUNETTE
PHILIPPE WAKES ME TO TELL me that he got up to listen to her and she’s sleeping peacefully. But ever since this morning, he’s worried.
He’s been giving her some hay but she won’t eat it.
He offers her fresh grass, which she normally adores: she hardly touches it. She’s stopped looking at her calf and doesn’t like it when it struggles to its feet and pokes its nose against her to suck.
When Philippe tak
es the calf away from her and ties it up elsewhere, Brunette doesn’t seem to notice.
Philippe’s worried and that makes us all worry. The children even want to get up.
The vet comes, examines her, and makes her come out of the cowshed. She knocks against the wall and stumbles on the doorstep. She’d fall over, so we have to take her back in.
“She’s very ill,” said the vet.
We don’t dare ask what’s wrong with her.
He’s afraid it’s milk fever, which is often fatal, especially for good milch cows, and, recalling all those which he’s managed to save, he brushes some liquid from a vial over Brunette’s hind-quarters.
“It’ll work as a vesicant,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what’s in it. It comes from Paris. If the brain isn’t affected, she’ll manage to get over it by herself, otherwise I’ll use the ice-water treatment. The ignorant peasants can’t understand that, but I know I’m not talking to one of them.”
“Go ahead.”
Brunette is lying on some straw and still has the strength to hold her head up. She’s stopped chewing the cud. She seems to be trying to breathe lightly, to hear what’s happening inside her better. We wrap her in a woolen blanket because her horns and her ears are going cold.
“As long as she can hold her ears up,” said Philippe, “there’s still some hope.”
Twice she tries to stand up and can’t.
She’s breathing hard, at longer and longer intervals.
And now her head has sunk down onto her left flank.
“That’s bad,” said Philippe, who was squatting, making encouraging noises.
She raises her head and then it falls so heavily onto the side of the manger that we all exclaim: “Oh!”
We wrap big bunches of straw around Brunette, so that she doesn’t stun herself.
She’s stretching out her neck and her feet and her whole body, as if she were relaxing in the meadow in stormy weather.
The vet decides to bleed her. He doesn’t go too close. He knows as much as any of the other vets, but he’s thought to be more cautious.
He hits the wooden mallet several times, the lancet misses the vein; he tries again and this time his aim is better and blood spouts into the tin bucket—it’s usually brimful with milk.
To stop the flow, the vet seals the vein with a steel pin.
Brunette’s relieved. We wet a sheet with water from the well and cover her from top to tail. We have to keep doing it because it quickly gets warm. Brunette doesn’t even shiver. Philippe is holding her tightly by the horns to prevent her head from striking against her left flank.
Brunette seems to have given up the struggle and is lying quite still. We don’t know if she’s feeling better or worse.
We’re all sad, but Philippe is really dismally sad, like one animal watching the suffering of another animal.
His wife brings his morning soup. He’s sitting on a stool, but he seems to have lost his appetite and doesn’t eat all of it.
“This is it,” he says. “She’s getting swollen.”
At first we’re not quite sure, but Philippe was right. She’s swelling up quite visibly and not going down; it’s as if the air can’t get out.
“Is she dead?” asks Philippe’s wife.
“Can’t you see?” retorted Philippe brusquely.
She goes out into the yard.
“It won’t be long before I go and get another one,” said Philippe.
“Another what?”
“Another Brunette.”
“You’ll go when I tell you,” I said. I’m surprised to hear my authoritative tone of voice.
We try to pretend that we’re irritated rather than saddened by what’s happened; we’re already using the expression: “Brunette has packed up.”
But that evening, I met the church bell ringer and was tempted, I don’t know why, to say to him: “Here’s five francs to toll the funeral bell for a friend of ours who’s just died in our house.”
THE OX
THIS MORNING THE DOOR OPENS as usual and, without stumbling, Castor comes out of his shed, slowly gulps his share of water in the trough, leaving the rest for Pollux, who’s late. Then, with water dribbling from his muzzle like rain from a tree after a shower, he obligingly, in an orderly manner, lollops up to his usual place under the yoke of the wagon.
His horns have been tied, his head isn’t moving, he’s wrinkling his belly, gently flicking off the black flies with his tail, and like a maid drowsing, broom in hand, he goes on chewing while waiting for Pollux.
But the farmhands are bustling around, shouting and swearing in the farmyard. The dog is yapping as if he can spy strangers.
Is this the first time that the gentle Pollux is not responding to the goad, twisting, hitting Castor in the ribs, fuming, and, even though he’s already yoked beside Castor, still trying to shake it off?
No, it’s just another ox.
Castor misses his partner and, seeing the troubled eye of this unknown ox next to him, he stops chewing.
THE BULL
I
THE FLY FISHERMAN IS STEPPING lightly along the bank of the Yonne, flicking his green fly on the surface.
He gets his green flies from poplar trunks, rubbed smooth by passing cattle.
He’s flicking his line sharply and pulling it back very confidently.
He thinks every new spot is going to be better than the last and soon leaves this one, climbing over a stile into the next meadow.
Then, as he’s walking across this large meadow, baking in the sun, he comes to a sudden stop.
Over there, in the middle of a group of cows peacefully lying down, their bull has gotten ponderously to his feet.
It’s a famous bull, and when they see him on the road, the passersby marvel at his size. They admire him from a distance: with the bow of his horns, he could toss any man high in the air, like an arrow—if, indeed, he hasn’t already done so. As gentle as a lamb when it suits him, he can fly into sudden rages when he feels so inclined, and people standing near him never know what’s going to happen next.
The angler is peering at him sideways, out of the corner of his eye.
“If I try to run away,” he’s thinking, “the bull will catch up to me before I have time to get out of the meadow. If I throw myself into the river, I’ll drown because I can’t swim. If I lie down and pretend to be dead, they say he’ll just come over to sniff me and leave me alone. But can I be quite sure? And what if he doesn’t go away? How dreadful! Best thing is to pretend I’m not worried, even if I am.”
So the fly fisherman went on fishing as if the bull wasn’t there. He’s hoping to fool him.
Under his straw hat, the back of his neck is scorching.
His feet are aching to run away; he makes them go on walking over the meadow. Heroically, he flicks his green fly onto the water.
Anyway, what’s the hurry?
The bull’s not paying the slightest attention to him; he’s staying with his cows.
He’d only got up for a change, moving for the sake of moving, just as people stretch themselves.
He turns his frizzy head into the breeze.
Now and then, with eyes half closed, he bellows.
He’s languid, he’s now lowing, and listening to himself lowing.
II
“Look how he’s watching me!”
“Don’t worry, Gloriette, he can easily see what a nice woman you are.”
III
Women recognize him by the frizzy hair on his forehead.
THE MARE
THEY’RE BRINGING IN ALL THE HAY; barns are stuffed full, up to their ridge tiles. Men and women are working fast because there’s bad weather in the offing, and if rain falls on cut hay it won’t be any good. All the carts are being used; you load up one while the other is being taken back to the farm. When night falls, they still keep coming and going.
A mare is neighing in her shafts, in reply to her colt who was calling to her and who’s spent th
e whole day without sucking a single drink.
She feels that work is finished and she’ll be able to get back to him. She shakes her collar, as if she were alone in her harness. The cart comes to a halt beside the wall of the barn. They’re unhitching and the mare will be free to go off at her lumbering trot to her colt, who’s poking his nose through the gate. But she can’t: they need her to bring back the last wagonload.
THE HORSE
MY HORSE IS NO BEAUTY. He’s got too many knots and hollow eyes; he’s flat ribbed, has a rat’s tail, and the incisors of an Englishwoman. But I have a soft spot for him. I can’t get over the fact that he keeps on working for me without showing any sign of resentment when I make him go here, there, and everywhere.
Every time I hitch him up, I expect him to say No and suddenly gallop off.
Not at all. He lowers and lifts his big head as if he’s putting his hat straight. He backs meekly into the shafts.
That’s why I give him generous portions of oats and maize, brush his coat until it shines like a cherry. I comb his mane, I weave his miserable little tail. I stroke him with my hand, speak to him in a gentle voice. I sponge his eyes. I wash his hooves.
Does he appreciate all this?
Nobody can tell.
He farts.
I most admire him when he takes me for a ride in my carriage. I whip him and he speeds up. I bring him to a halt and he brings me to a halt. I tug his left rein and he goes left, instead of going right and tipping me into the ditch and giving me the odd kick somewhere with his hoof.
I’m afraid of him and he makes me feel ashamed and sorry for him.
Isn’t he one day, soon, going to wake up from dozing and finally take over my place and reduce me to his?
Nature Stories (9781590175682) Page 3