through sheer
kindness of heart, at the end of the stable.

A young scamp about fifteen years old, Isidore Duval by name, and
called, for convenience, Zidore, took care of this pensioner, gave him
his measure of oats and fodder in winter, and in summer was supposed
to change his pasturing place four times a day, so that he might have
plenty of fresh grass.

The animal, almost crippled, lifted with difficulty his legs, large at
the knees and swollen above the hoofs. His coat, which was no longer
curried, looked like white hair, and his long eyelashes gave to his eyes
a sad expression.

When Zidore took the animal to pasture, he had to pull on the rope with
all his might, because it walked so slowly; and the youth, bent over and
out of breath, would swear at it, exasperated at having to care for this
old nag.

The farmhands, noticing the young rascal's anger against Coco, were
amused and would continually talk of the horse to Zidore, in order to
exasperate him. His comrades would make sport with him. In the village
he was called Coco-Zidore.

The boy would fume, feeling an unholy desire to revenge himself on the
horse. He was a thin, long-legged, dirty child, with thick, coarse,
bristly red hair. He seemed only half-witted, and stuttered as though
ideas were unable to form in his thick, brute-like mind.

For a long time he had been unable to understand why Coco should be
kept, indignant at seeing things wasted on this useless beast. Since the
horse could no longer work, it seemed to him unjust that he should
be fed; he revolted at the idea of wasting oats, oats which were so
expensive, on this paralyzed old plug. And often, in spite of the orders
of Maitre Lucas, he would economize on the nag's food, only giving him
half measure. Hatred grew in his confused, childlike mind, the hatred of
a stingy, mean, fierce, brutal and cowardly peasant.

When summer came he had to move the animal about in the pasture. It was
some distance away. The rascal, angrier every morning, would start,
with his dragging step, across the wheat fields. The men working in the
fields would shout to him, jokingly:

"Hey, Zidore, remember me to Coco."

He would not answer; but on the way he would break off a switch, and, as
soon as he had moved the old horse, he would let it begin grazing; then,
treacherously sneaking up behind it, he would slash its legs. The animal
would try to escape, to kick, to get away from the blows, and run around