A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER VIII.
HOW EUSÈBE TREATS THE HORSE AT DIEPPE.—MAURICE RECOVERS IT.—THE THIEVES ARE ARRESTED.—RETURN OF FRITZ.—HIS GRATITUDE TO MAURICE.—HE MENDS THE HORSE.
A few days after Eusèbe came into possession of the horse, in the way described in the last chapter, he went off with his father and mother to Dieppe for sea-bathing. He took Cressida with him, for he wished to show it to some little friends whom he expected to meet there.
His fondness for the wooden horse did not last long. Instead of being reasonable and gentle with it, like Maurice, he was continually wanting this ingenious automaton to do more than it was intended to do. When it failed, he would grow impatient, call it obstinate, and beat it with all his might; sometimes he would spitefully pull the hair from its mane, and try to tear out its eyes. The best that could happen for the poor little horse now would be for its master to get tired of it, and cast it aside entirely.
THE RECOIL OF THE PISTOL THREW HIM ON HIS BACK.
The garden of the house occupied by Mr. and Mrs. de Malassise at Dieppe was ornamented with grottoes, rocks, cascades, rivulets, all in miniature, as if intended to amuse children. Eusèbe was fond of jumping about among the rocks and rivulets, and one day he took it into his head that Cressida should do the same. He took the horse at a gallop up to a little stream, only two or three feet wide, intending it to leap across; but it galloped into the water instead, leaping not being one of the movements it was constructed to make. Eusèbe took it up to the water two or three times, not sparing threats or blows while he did so, but in vain. Then he began to scream, as usual when he was in a rage, and looking about for some means of satisfying his anger, he remembered that his father kept a loaded pistol on the upper shelf of a closet in his dressing-room. He ran upstairs, and by mounting on a chair, contrived to reach the pistol, which was a double-barrelled one. Returning again into the garden, and still as furious as ever against the poor little horse, he went close up to it and fired off both barrels at once.
The horse was not so much damaged as Eusèbe himself. The child held the pistol in both hands, the left hand being close to the muzzle, and the result of his exploit was that not only did the recoil of the pistol throw him down on his back, but his hand was wounded and burnt by the explosion. He fainted from the pain, and in this state was picked up by his father, who ran into the garden at the sound of the shot.
Mr. and Mrs. de Malassise, instead of being angry with their son, laid the blame of the accident on the unfortunate horse; and a servant was at once ordered to break it in pieces, and throw it upon the fire.
In consequence of this accident Eusèbe had an attack of fever, and was obliged to keep his bed for some days. Most children in his place would have been taught a useful lesson by the suffering he thus brought upon himself. Not so Eusèbe: he only took advantage of the anxiety his parents felt about him, to be more tyrannical and capricious than before.
About this time Mr. and Mrs. de Roisel came also with their son to pass a few weeks at Dieppe, and Eusèbe was not yet quite restored to health when my little friend went to see him. With tears in their eyes Eusèbe’s parents related the accident which had happened to their dear child; and it did not seem to occur to them that there was anything in the affair for which he could be found fault with. But Maurice felt indignant at what he considered cruelty even towards a wooden horse. He was thinking of Cressida while he listened to the story; but as Eusèbe’s horse was not particularly described by his parents, it never occurred to Maurice that it could be his own lost Cressida.
A few mornings later Maurice was taking a country walk with his father and mother a little way out of Dieppe, when, as they approached a small village, they heard the loud and angry voices of children.
“Gee-up, gee-up! Get on, lazy beast!” said one voice.
“He can’t carry so many,” said another.
“He can’t move!” exclaimed a third.
“I tell you he can.”
“Tell you he can’t.”
“You shall see. Hi! Gee-up, gee-up! Go along!” and immediately the sound of a shower of blows, rained upon the back of some poor animal, reached the ears of Maurice, who, without stopping to reflect, ran as fast as legs of eight years old can run, in the direction of the noise.
He stopped at the entrance to a farm, where, in the courtyard, he saw five or six boys, and as many little girls, all clustered round a small pony. Two boys and a girl had contrived to seat themselves upon its back; two or three more were dragging it along by the bridle, while another beat it with a stick behind. The pony hung down its head in a way that was pitiful to see; it appeared to have a shoulder dislocated, and a leg was broken above the knee, and bandaged up. Its difficulty in “going along” seemed quite accounted for.
“Are you not ashamed,” cried my little friend, “to ride, three of you at once, upon a little pony who is lame and ill?”
At first the boys were inclined to answer by some impertinence, but seeing Mr. and Mrs. de Roisel coming up behind Maurice, they rather sulkily got down from the pony. Then the poor animal, relieved from their weight, raised its drooping head, and a sudden suspicion flashed across the mind of Maurice. He cried out,—
“Oh! it is Cressida!”
Maurice ran back to his parents to tell them of his discovery; but instead of explaining himself, he could only say,—“Come, come quickly!”
TWO BOYS AND A GIRL HAD SEATED THEMSELVES UPON ITS BACK.
He took his mother’s arm, for he was so agitated he could scarcely stand.
Mr. de Roisel at once asked who was the owner of the unfortunate Cressida. It was one of the boys present: but the mother of this boy, being at work in the next field, observed that something was going on, and she now came up out of curiosity to see what was the matter. When Mr. de Roisel said he wished to buy the horse, she replied that she would sell it willingly.
“How much do you ask for it?” said he.
“You can give me whatever you please, sir.”
“A napoleon—is that enough?”
“Indeed, sir, it is too much,” she replied, “for the horse cost me only the trouble of asking for it. But if you like to give so much, sir——”
“Where did you get it?” asked Mr. de Roisel.
“Well, I got it in this way, sir. You must know I go twice every day into the town to take milk to different houses. One afternoon I was at the house of a rich gentleman, when I heard him call out to the servant to throw this little horse into the fire. It was in much better condition then than it is now, and though it might not be good enough for that rich gentleman’s children to play with, it was quite good enough for mine. So I begged the servant to give it me rather than burn it, and he let me have it. There you see, sir, how I got it without paying anything. We poor people do not buy wooden horses for our children.”
Mr. de Roisel gave the napoleon to the good woman, and some money also to her little boy.
“May God for ever bless you, my good gentleman,” said she, astonished at his generosity; and she almost suspected that he must know of some hidden treasure inside the little horse.
When Eusèbe heard how Maurice had recovered Cressida, he was furious, and wanted the servant to be immediately sent away who had spared the little horse from burning. That evening Mr. de Malassise gave an account of the circumstances under which he had bought the horse, and spoke of the suspicion he had felt from the first of the man who sold it. The next day information was given to the police, and it was not long before the seller of the horse was arrested. He proved to be one of the thieves who had broken into Mr. Duberger’s house. His accomplice was a man who went about the country as a pedlar, selling ribbons, silk-handkerchiefs, and toys. In this way he used to obtain access to houses, learning where valuable things were kept, and what were the habits of the family. The two together had committed the robbery: both were tried and convicted.
Mr. Duberger recovered only a small portion of the objects of art that had been stolen, but he was much rejoiced to hear that Maurice had got back his horse.
It was the month of October, and Maurice had returned to his own country home, where Cressida was installed once more in its old stable. But the poor pony had lost its former activity; it could not go faster than a walk, and even that with difficulty.
One morning Maurice was in the garden, when he saw Fritz approaching him, walking as fast as his old legs would carry him, and having an open letter in his hand. My little friend ran to meet him, when the old man embraced the child with tears in his eyes, and called him his benefactor. Seeing that Maurice did not understand why he used the word, Fritz tried to explain, but for some time he was too much affected to say anything intelligible.
“Ah, my poor niece!” he exclaimed, “she owes her life to you! Is it possible, so young a child! But I never thought you like other children. You have saved the life of a poor woman and her three little children. Nobody would believe it; yet it is true; it is all told here.” And he pointed to the letter in his hand.
At this moment Mrs. de Roisel came up, and welcomed Fritz back again. Then he soon became sufficiently calm to explain himself clearly. It appeared that the young woman, with her three children, whom Maurice had met in the Luxembourg gardens, and had been so kind to, was the niece of Fritz. No sooner had she arrived in America than, overflowing with gratitude, she wrote her uncle a long account of what had happened to them, telling him how they had been saved by a young child named Maurice de Roisel. It was this letter that Fritz held in his hand. He had returned from Nuremberg to his cottage in the village only the evening before, and had come the first thing this morning to express his gratitude to Maurice.
“But how,” asked Fritz, “came you to have so large a sum of money by you to give?”
“Oh, I did not give it all myself: besides, I was obliged to part with Cressida.”
“Is it possible?” cried Fritz, starting back and turning pale. “You didn’t sell it?”
“Alas!” replied Maurice, “it was only by parting with Cressida that I could procure the money.”
“You were right: I must not complain. If it was the only way, you did right.”
“But, oh Fritz! you cannot imagine in what a state I found my poor Cressida again.”
“What!” cried the old man, with the joy of a child, “you have Cressida again then? You should have told me so at first; it would have saved me pain. But you did well to sell it, else how could my poor niece have joined her husband?—my niece who is almost my daughter!”
Then Maurice related Cressida’s adventures, and the wooden horse was brought out for Fritz to look at.
“It is not seriously damaged,” said he, after examining it. “In a few days I will restore it to what it was a year ago: but bear in mind, I am the only doctor that can effect a cure. If, when I am no longer alive, it should be damaged in the same way, there is no one who could mend it. Watch then carefully over it in future.”
PUZZLE-PAGE.
Now, children, see if you can find out the names of these different objects. Three of them begin with A, one with C, one with H, and one with S.
