Spring and summer (cont.)
In August the de Chagny family were sitting on the terrace in the shade, enjoying the summer afternoon, when a stable lad came running from the stables behind the chateau.
"Monsieur, you must come at once!" he called, still some way off. Raoul got up and followed him to the stable block and coachhouse behind the chateau. Carriages and horses for use by the owner were kept there, since the stud farm was not directly close by.
The door to the stables was shut and muffled shouts and whinnying of horses could be heard from within. "We need to go in by the side entrance," said the boy, and opened the small door. Raoul had to stoop to enter.
Inside the stable he could see Maurice Dubois, who had taken refuge in an empty box while stable hands were standing at the ends of the wide central aisle. In this passageway itself was the big grey stallion that Pierre had ridden, behaving as if it had gone mad. Pierre sat bareback astride the horse.
"Come to your senses, man!" shouted Maurice from his hiding-place.
Pierre shouted back "Open the door, now!" None of the stable hands made any move to obey the order. The grey reared, struck out with his forefeet and made three leaps forward before coming back down on all four legs. He danced nervously backwards to his starting position, where he pawed at the ground and nodded his head.
One of the lads tried to approach. Pierre yelled at him "Stay away from me!" and in the next moment the grey stallion sprang into the air and struck out with his back legs before landing once more and remaining at a standstill.
"What's going on here?" shouted Raoul.
Pierre calmed the horse. "I won't allow him to be sent for slaughter!"
"Who would want him to be slaughtered?" said Raoul, bewildered.
At this point Maurice dared to venture out of the box. He explained that the grey devil of a brute was to be sold for slaughter and that Pierre had gone crazy when he heard.
"Both of you come to my study, and we'll talk about this," ordered Raoul.
"Will you give me your word, sir, that he won't be killed in the meantime?" said Pierre.
"I will," answered the Vicomte, who was wondering more and more what had just happened. The warning that Pierre had given him came back to mind, in which the old soldier had compared himself to a savage dog who soils the carpet.
Given that the stallion had been acting earlier as if he had gone crazy, Pierre had remarkably little trouble in getting him back into his box. Then the three men returned to the chateau and the Vicomte's study, where the latter took his place behind his desk like a judge while the bickering pair sat in front of him.
"Why can't you just get along together?" asked the Vicomte, frustrated. Both the men stared at the floor like guilty schoolboys and said nothing. Raoul sighed. "Don't make things so difficult!"
Maurice began, "My responsibility as steward is to sort out those horses that are no longer of any use. These are sold to the knacker's yard."
"But Othello isn't a knackered-out horse!" yelled Pierre. "He's an outstanding animal — I can't understand why he hasn't been used for showing or as a stud."
"He gives the devil a new name!" groaned Maurice.
Pierre would not be swayed. "He was ruined by the man who broke him in, that's all. The poor thing is simply terrified of humans. It took a long time before I understood that, but since I found out how to handle him he's proved himself to be a superb horse. If you bred from him, his offspring would be unbeatable in the dressage ring or on the racecourse."
"That stallion is by far and away the ugliest horse here in the stud — he has a vicious nature and a completely unmanageable temperament," Maurice pointed out calmly. "He's absolutely useless."
"And so you want him slaughtered just because he's ugly?" Pierre shouted, his voice cracking with rage. "Did you see his levade? Didn't you see how he leapt in the capriole? Do you have the faintest idea about horseflesh at all?"
Raoul broke in. "Wait a minute — levade? Capriole? Are you trying to say that the stallion wasn't going completely wild?"
"No, of course not," growled Pierre. His expression and body language were suddenly reminiscent of a raging wolf. "I had him under control the whole time. I told you he was an outstanding animal."
"He costs money to keep and brings in none," retorted Maurice.
"You — where you're concerned everything comes down to nothing more than figures on paper!" snarled Pierre, and Raoul half expected to see him snap like a hound, so strongly did he give the impression of a wolf.
"That's my job," retorted Maurice, unimpressed.
"In that case I'll buy him," Pierre proposed.
"You couldn't afford it."
"I won't pay any more than the knacker will."
"And the cost of his keep? The devil of a brute could live another good ten years, and you couldn't afford that, not on your wages."
Raoul took a decision to put an end to the dispute. He had heard enough to form his own ideas. "Monsieur Bertrand, Dubois is right — you couldn't afford a horse. And another thing: what was the meaning of all that to-do in the stable?"
Now Pierre no longer looked angry but more like a dog whose master had struck him over the muzzle with a rolled-up newspaper. "My temper got away from me," he admitted sheepishly. "I wanted to take the horse to safety so that he wouldn't be sold for slaughter tomorrow."
"In other words, you wanted to steal him," Maurice observed drily.
"No!" flung back Pierre. "Not to steal him! I would have brought him back as soon as you promised not to sell him."
Raoul sighed. "Gentlemen — don't you think you're taking far too emotional an approach to the issue?"
Pierre swallowed, then answered hoarsely: "He can't help it that he is ugly and that the horse-breaker ruined him."
"Are you trying to tell me that you have feelings over a horse?" jibed Maurice, and Pierre's fists clenched on his trousers as if he were obliged to clutch onto something to keep himself from strangling Maurice with his bare hands.
"Monsieur Dubois, leave us for a moment, please," ordered Raoul. When the steward was out of the room, he turned to Pierre, who had sunk down on the settee with his head in his hands. "You do know there's something in what he says, don't you?"
"Yes — from the point of view of strict economy," Pierre admitted against his will, looking up at the Vicomte, who was standing directly in front of him, leaning against the desk.
"But you're fond of the animal?"
Pierre nodded.
"And my good steward is absolutely correct in saying that you can't afford a horse?" continued Raoul, and Pierre nodded again.
"So why did you make all that song and dance in the stables, instead of coming to me and asking me not to sell the horse?" Raoul practically yelled at him, and Pierre flinched and cringed away.
Finally he answered, ashamed, "I'm sorry, sir. I was in the wrong — but I was afraid the stallion would disappear right away, I... I know he belongs to you, sir, you can do what you like with him, but..."
He broke off and said nothing.
"You see yourself reflected in Othello — am I right?" prompted Raoul, and Pierre nodded and stared down at his hands.
Raoul sighed. "Very well. We'll reach an agreement. Provided you don't get up to any more nonsense, Othello will remain in the stables and be at your disposal when we ride out together. But if you cause trouble one more time, he'll be made into mincemeat. Agreed?"
Pierre nodded in silence.
~o~
That evening Raoul told his wife what had happened.
"I just don't know what to make of it." He sighed. "On the one hand I'm touched at Bertrand's fighting to save the life of this horse, on the other I'm very disappointed in him. Instead of simply coming to me and asking for something, he puts himself and others into danger."
Christine said nothing for a while. Then she asked "And he named the horse Othello?"
"Yes, on account of his ungovernable temperament."
Christine was silent again. She could not say why, but all at once she had the feeling that something here was definitely not as it should be. She couldn't say exactly what, but something was not at all right.
A couple of weeks later Raoul rode out to the paddock where the young horses to be broken in were kept. Pierre and Maurice accompanied him on the inspection as usual.
Next to the paddock was a little fenced-off space where the breaking-in took place. A fat, heavy-set man was sitting on a horse that was downright grey with sweat and bleeding at the mouth from the curb-bit, and raking the animal's flanks with his spurs.
"Stop that!" shouted Raoul. "Down off that horse at once!"
The fat man groaned and let himself slip off the horse. Pierre sprang over the fence and caught the distressed animal, led it carefully back and handed it over to a stableboy. Together they took off the saddle and bridle and began to rub it down with soft cloths.
The horse-breaker went towards Raoul and climbed laboriously over the fence. Immediately Pierre let fall his cloth and jumped back over the fence to stand beside Raoul. Both could smell at once that the man was drunk.
"What is it, Monsieur?" the man asked, trying to appear friendly.
"What was all that about?" asked Raoul, barely controlling his rage.
"The brute won't do as he's told — I had to punish him," the man explained. "You have to break a horse's will before you can break him in."
Pierre turned away and retched suddenly. He tried to master himself, but he simply couldn't manage it and had to throw up. Raoul looked at him in surprise.
"Bertrand, are you all right?" he asked in concern.
"Yes, yes, too much breakfast — that's all." Pierre waved him aside and wiped his beard with a handkerchief. Then he took a deep breath and stationed himself again beside Raoul.
"You're ruining my horses!" snapped out Raoul. "I can't put up with this."
"When the brutes won't obey of their own accord, I break their will — then they're good as gold," insisted the rider.
"You're drunk, man!" snarled Maurice, who was standing somewhat apart from the others but had also noticed the man's condition.
"How can you let such a man deal with horses?" Pierre demanded of him.
"Please... he's been here for twenty years, he's one of our best..." Maurice protested defensively.
"Perhaps he was — once," retorted Pierre, and his voice held an edge of ice that brought a shiver to Maurice. "But now he's a drunken wreck who tortures horses."
"What d'you call me?" demanded the horse-breaker.
"You answer to ME," snapped the Vicomte. "And if you continue, you'll ruin more of my horses. You're dismissed without notice — get your things and be gone!"
"Dismissed?" The rider was taken completely by surprise. "You can't do that!"
"Can't I just?" answered Raoul, between his teeth.
"How could you? After I've given twenty years of my life?" It was a whine.
Just then the stable boy reported that the young horse's flanks were deeply wounded by the spurs, and that it was uncertain whether he might not have to be put down.
"Get out!" Raoul shouted at the horse-breaker. "And woe betide you if I ever catch you near my horses again — may God have mercy on you then, for I shall have none. How many have you already cost me? Well? How many? I ought to have you arrested!"
The fat rider made off, cursing loudly, and Raoul turned to Maurice. "Why haven't you already sacked him years ago?"
"I didn't know he drank and misused the horses," the steward excused himself. "He has been here so long — I trusted him."
The following afternoon, a servant reported that the dismissed rider was asking to see the Vicomte.
"Don't let him in," warned Pierre.
"He says he wants to apologise."
"All the same, don't let him in," said Pierre, still distrustful.
"Monsieur Bertrand — everyone deserves a second chance. You above all should appreciate that," Raoul said sharply, and Pierre bit his lip.
The horse-breaker staggered as he entered Raoul's study. Raoul was sitting behind his desk, while Pierre leant against the front of the desk and kept an eagle eye on the man who had just come in.
"What do you want?" asked Raoul.
"To apologise," said the rider. "And my job back."
"You're drunk again!" snapped Raoul.
"You can't do this to me — I've worked twenty years for your family, you can't just chase me off like some mangy dog..."
"I can — now get out." Raoul had made his decision.
"You've ruined my life!" the fat man screamed suddenly, and then everything happened in a flash: he drew a gun that he had hidden under his jacket, Pierre instantly drew his own weapon, and two shots rang out at once.
The rider collapsed. Pierre's shot had hit him in the face. Pierre staggered back and clutched his shoulder. Raoul sat as if frozen to the spot; he simply couldn't grasp what had just taken place.
Pierre turned slowly towards Raoul, and the latter saw that Pierre was bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder.
"Are you hit?" asked Pierre, and Raoul shook his head. "Then the shot didn't pass through. Get me the doctor!"
Raoul sprang to his feet and ran to the door, where servants were already arriving from all directions after hearing the shots. "The doctor — quickly!" he shouted, then returned to Pierre, who had sat down on the floor and was leaning back against the desk.
"Is it bad?" he asked.
"I'll let you know once the doctor's here," Pierre jerked out between clenched teeth.
It seemed to take forever for the doctor to arrive, but in fact it was only a few minutes. A ghastly scene presented itself to the doctor's sight: one man lay obviously dead on the floor and the other sat wounded with the helpless Vicomte beside him.
Dr Martin shoved the Vicomte aside and cut open Pierre's coat and shirt with a large pair of scissors so that he didn't have to move his wounded arm. Pierre groaned, then looked at the Vicomte. "Do me a favour — close the door behind you when you go out."
Raoul nodded and left. Only when he was outside did it occur to him that he had no reason at all to obey Pierre's orders. But he could understand his desire to remain undisturbed while undergoing the doctor's ministrations.
It wasn't long before the doctor came back out.
"He's lucky," he reported. "The gun was badly loaded and the bullet didn't penetrate very far; I was able to extract it and clean the wound. All that's needed now is plenty of rest and a nourishing diet, and he'll be sound again."
At that point Pierre came to the door. His right shoulder was bandaged and his right arm was in a sling, and he had hung his coat across his shoulders to shroud his body.
"You shouldn't have got up," the doctor scolded him.
"You can carry me out feet first when I'm dead," growled Pierre. "For the moment, just let me through."
Only when the worst of the commotion had subsided did it occur to Raoul to notify the police. There was a dead body, and that couldn't simply be disposed of. Two policemen turned up and questioned everyone — save Pierre, whom the doctor declared to be in no fit state for interrogation — made notes, and finally announced that they would report it to the examining magistrate as a case of self-defence.
At midday Christine and Raoul insisted on delivering Pierre's lunch to the gatehouse themselves. Christine knocked on the door and the dogs immediately started to bark, although more in a friendly way than in aggression.
"Wait a moment — I'm coming," called Pierre, and they heard shuffling steps. Something fell to the floor, Pierre cursed, and finally the door opened.
"Madame, Monsieur... I wasn't expecting a visit..." he said in embarrassment. He was wearing a battered dressing-gown and had taken off the sling on his right arm.
"We've brought you some lunch," said Christine. "May we come in?"
Pierre cast a critical look around his room, then said with a sigh "If you'll promise me not to make a fuss about the mess..." and went back in, where he sat down on the bed. The three dogs were lying there. There was also a table and a chest, as well as a chair. On the table lay a disassembled pistol, which Pierre had clearly been in the middle of oiling at the time when the horse-breaker arrived.
Christine took the little pot out of her basket, together with napkin and cutlery. "Where shall I put it?" she asked.
"Just give it to me, thanks," replied Pierre. He put the pot down next to him on the bed and began to eat with his left hand. His three dogs watched every bite that he ate.
"You should move into the chateau," suggested Christine. "I can't allow a man who has saved all our lives to live out here in such poor conditions when so many rooms are standing empty. And besides, we would be able to take better care of you. It's the least we can do. You can move your things across when your arm is better."
Pierre asked if he would be able to take his dogs with him. Raoul and Christine discussed this quietly, and Raoul gave his consent.
"I'd like to consider you as a member of the family — a kind of uncle to Marie," Christine said. "Only if it's all right with you, of course?"
Pierre hesitated not a moment before accepting the generous offer.