[adapted]

by
Guy De Maupassant

Throughout the whole countryside, the Lucas farm was known as “the Manor.” No one knew why. The country people probably thought the word “Manor” meant something rich and grand, because this farm was without a doubt the biggest, richest, and best-managed place in the area.

The huge yard, surrounded by five rows of beautiful trees that protected the delicate apple trees from the strong wind on the plain, held inside it long brick buildings for storing food for the animals and grain, lovely stables built with hard stone for thirty horses, and a red brick house that looked like a small castle.

Because everything was well cared for, the piles of manure did not smell too bad; the guard dogs had proper houses to sleep in, and many chickens and ducks walked proudly through the tall grass.

Every day at noon, fifteen people—owners, farm workers, and the women—sat around the long kitchen table where soup was served hot in a big, blue bowl with flower patterns.

The animals—horses, cows, pigs, and sheep—were fat, healthy, and clean. Maitre Lucas, a tall man who was becoming a bit fat, walked around three times a day to check on everything and make sure it all ran well.

A very old white horse, which the farmer’s wife wanted to keep until it died naturally, stayed at the end of the stable. She had raised the horse herself and used it for many years. She kept it because it reminded her of happy times.

A young rascal about fifteen years old, named Isidore Duval—but called Zidore for short—took care of this old horse. He gave the horse its oats and hay in the winter, and in the summer, he was supposed to move the horse to a new grassy area four times a day so it could always eat fresh grass.

The horse, almost lame, had trouble lifting its legs, which were large at the knees and swollen above the hooves. Its coat, no longer brushed, looked like white hair, and its long eyelashes made its eyes look sad.

When Zidore took the horse out to pasture, he had to pull hard on the rope, because the horse walked so slowly. The boy, bent over and out of breath, would swear at it, angry that he had to take care of the old horse.

The farm workers saw how mad the boy got at Coco and liked to tease him about it. They would always talk about the horse just to make Zidore more upset. His friends made fun of him. In the village, people called him Coco-Zidore.

The boy would get very angry and wanted to take revenge on the horse. He was thin, with long legs, dirty clothes, and thick, rough, messy red hair. He seemed not very smart, and he stuttered as if his ideas couldn’t come out of his slow, dull mind.

For a long time, he didn’t understand why Coco should be kept. He felt angry that food was being wasted on this useless horse. Since the horse could no longer work, it seemed unfair to him that it still got fed. He hated the idea of giving expensive oats to this old, crippled animal. So, even though Maitre Lucas gave clear orders, Zidore often gave Coco only half the amount of food. Hate started to grow in his confused, child-like mind—hate like that of a stingy, mean, angry, rough, and cowardly farm boy.

When summer came, Zidore had to take the horse to different places in the pasture. The field was far away. Every morning, he got angrier and walked there slowly, dragging his feet through the wheat fields. The men working in the fields would shout to him and tease him:

“Hey, Zidore, say hello to Coco for me!”

He wouldn’t answer. But on the way, he would break off a stick. As soon as he moved the old horse to a new spot, he would let it start eating grass. Then, sneaking up behind it, he would hit its legs with the stick. The horse would try to run away, to kick, to escape the hits, and run in a circle at the end of its rope, like a horse in a circus. And the boy would hit it again and again, running behind it, his teeth tight with anger.

Then he would walk away slowly, without looking back, while the horse watched him leave, its ribs showing and breathing hard after all the running. The horse wouldn’t lower its thin white head to eat until Zidore’s blue shirt had disappeared from view.

Now that the nights were warm, Coco was allowed to sleep outside, in the field behind the small woods. Only Zidore went to see him. The boy threw stones at him for fun. He would sit on a small hill about ten feet away and stay there for half an hour, throwing a sharp stone now and then at the old horse. The horse stood still, tied up, watching his enemy and not daring to eat until the boy left.

One idea stayed in the young rascal’s mind: “Why feed this horse that can’t do anything anymore?” To him, the old horse was stealing food from the other animals, from people, even from God. He felt the horse was stealing from him, Zidore, who worked.

Then, day by day, the boy started making the rope shorter—the rope that let the horse reach the grass.

The hungry horse was getting thinner and starving. Too weak to break the rope, it would stretch its head toward the tall, green grass, so close he could smell it, but too far to eat.

But one morning Zidore had a new idea: don’t move Coco at all anymore. He was tired of walking so far just for that old skeleton. He still came to visit, but just to enjoy seeing the horse suffer. The animal watched him nervously. Zidore didn’t hit him that day. He walked around him with his hands in his pockets. He even acted like he was moving him, but he put the stake right back in the same spot. Then he left, happy with his trick.

The horse, seeing him leave, neighed to try to call him back. But the mean boy began to run away, leaving the horse alone—completely alone in the field, tied tightly, with no grass close enough to eat.

Starving, the horse tried to reach the grass that he could just touch with the tip of his nose. He got down on his knees, stretching out his neck and long, wet lips. But it was no use. The old animal spent the whole day making painful, useless efforts. The sight of all that green grass around him only made his hunger worse.

The cruel boy didn’t come back that day. Instead, he walked in the woods, looking for bird nests.

The next day, he came back. Coco, now very weak, had been lying down. When he saw the boy, he stood up, hoping that finally he would be moved to a new place.

But the little farm boy didn’t even touch the wooden hammer that was lying on the ground. He came closer, looked at the horse, threw a lump of dirt at his head—which hit and spread over the white hair—and then walked away, whistling.

The horse stayed standing for as long as he could still see the boy. Then, knowing that he would not be moved and that trying to reach the grass was useless, he lay back down on his side and closed his eyes.

The following day, Zidore did not come.

When he finally did come, he found Coco still lying down. He saw that the horse was dead.

Then he stood there, looking at him, feeling proud of what he had done, and surprised that it was already over. He touched the horse with his foot, lifted one leg and let it fall again. Then he sat on the body and stayed there, staring at the grass, thinking about nothing. He went back to the farm but didn’t say anything about the death, because he wanted to walk around during the times when he used to move the horse. The next day, he went to see the body again. When he got close, some crows flew away. Many flies were crawling over the horse and buzzing in the air.

When he returned home, he finally told them what had happened. The horse was so old that no one was surprised. The farmer said to two of the men:

“Take your shovels and dig a hole right where he is.”

The men buried the horse in the place where he had died of hunger. And the grass grew there thick, green, and strong, fed by the poor animal’s body.