"Monsieur Seguin’s Goat" by Alphonse Daudet (1866)

This timeless tale of a little she-goat’s dream of finding true liberty in the high mountains by the author of Tartarin de Tarascan is probably the best-known short story in all of French literature, familiar to every Gallic citizen young and old [1].

(2,200 words)

Translated specially for this site [2]

The original text can be consulted in the annex here.

MONSIEUR SEGUIN’S GOAT

To M. Pierre Gringoire, lyrical poet in Paris.

You’ll never change, my poor Gringoire!

What? You’ve been offered a job as reporter in a good Parisian paper and you have the nerve to refuse it?… But just look at yourself, you poor fellow! Look at that jacket of yours full of holes, at the state of those trousers, those marks of hunger on your face! That’s what your passion for lovely rimes has led you to! That’s what ten years of loyal service in the sphere of Apollo has done for you... Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, at last?

Become a reporter, you idiot, become a reporter! You’ll earn a lot of good money, you’ll have your reserved table at Brébant’s and you’ll be able to show yourself on first nights at theatres with a new pen in your breast pocket…

No, you don’t want to?… You pretend to think that you can remain free forever?… Well, listen a little to the tale of Monsieur Seguin’s she-goat, and you’ll see what it costs to want to always live freely.

Monsieur Seguin had never had much luck with his she-goats.

He always lost them the same way: one fine morning they would break free from their ropes and would go up on the heights in the mountain, where they would be eaten by the wolf. Neither the caresses of their master nor the fear of the wolf – nothing could keep them back.

The good Monsieur Seguin, who knew nothing about the personal characters of his animals, was consternated. He would say: “That’s enough! They’re tired of being with me, so I won’t keep any anymore!”

However, he never really was that discouraged, and after having lost six she-goats in the same way he bought a seventh; but this time he took care to get one while she was still very young, so that she would get better used to being with him.

Ah, Gringoire, that little she-goat of Monsieur Seguin was just so lovely with her soft eyes, her cute little beard like a non-commissioned officer’s, her shiny black hoofs, her curved horns and her long white strands of hair trailing like a fur-lined coat! She was just as charming as the little kid-goat Esmerelda – do you remember her, Gringoire? – and, as well, she was docile and caressing, letting herself be milked without trouble and without putting her hooves into her food-bowl. A darling little she-goat.

Behind Monsieur Seguin’s house there was a yard enclosed by hawthorn hedges. That’s where he installed his new lodger. He attached her to a stake in the nicest part of the yard, making sure that she had a lot of scope for her rope, and from time to time he would go out there to visit her to see how she was doing.

“Finally,” the poor man thought, “here’s one that won’t be tired of staying with me!”

However, Monsieur Seguin was wrong: his she-goat did become bored with her life with him.

One day she said to herself on looking up at the mountains: “How it must be nice up there! How nice it would be to run around the heather as much as you wanted to without being bothered by this awful collar around my neck that’s constantly choking me… That’s alright for the donkey or the cow who are grazing in the enclosure here, but goats need the wide open spaces!”

From that moment onwards, the grass of the enclosure seemed to her to be bland and tasteless. She began to lose weight and her milk began to give out. It was sad to see her pulling on her rope all day long, her head turned towards the mountainside, her nostrils wile open and sadly bleating “Mé”!…

Monsieur Seguin realized that there was something bothering his goat, but he didn’t know what it was… One morning, as he was finishing to milk her, she turned to him and said to him in his local patois: “Listen to me, Monsieur Seguin, I’m bored here with you here, please let me go up unto the mountain!”

“Oh, my God!… She too!’ M. Seguin cried out, stupefied, and in his surprise he dropped the milk-bowl. Then, sitting down on the grass beside her, he said: “What, Blanquette, you want to leave me?”

And Blanquette replied: “Yes I do, Monsieur Seguin!”

“Don’t you have enough grass here?”

“Oh, yes I do, Monsieur Seguin!”

“Your rope is perhaps a bit too short; would you like me to make it longer?”

“It’s not worth the trouble, Monsieur Seguin.”

“Well, what do you need? What do you want?”

“I want to go up into the mountain, monsieur Seguin.”

“But, unfortunate animal, you know that there’s a wolf in the mountain… What will you do when he comes along?”

“I’ll but into him with my horns, Monsieur Seguin.”

“The wolf doesn’t care about your horns! He’s eaten goats much bigger than you… Do you remember the poor old Renaude who was here last year? A great big she-goat, as strong and as bad-tempered as any billy goat. She battled with the wolf all one night… and then in the morning the wolf ate her!”

“Good Grief! The poor Renaude!… It doesn’t matter, Monsieur Seguin – I beg you to let me go up into the mountain!”

“My God!… Monsieur Seguin said; “But what’s happening to my goats? Here’s another one that the wolf ‘s going to eat… Well, no!… I’ll save you in spite of yourself, you hussy! And to avoid your biting through your rope, I’m going to close you up in the stable, where you’ll stay for good!”

Thereupon Monsieur Seguin took the goat into the pitch-black stable, whose door he closed with a double turn of the key. Unfortunately, he forgot about the window, and scarcely had he turned his back than the little goat was gone…

“You’re laughing, Gringoire? I do think so; you’ve taken the side of the she-goat against the good Monsieur Seguin… We’ll see who’ll be laughing in a minute!”

When she arrived in the mountain it was a moment of great rejoicing for her. The old fir trees had never seen anything so lovely, and they greeted her like a little queen. The chestnut trees lowered themselves down so that they could caress her with their branches. The golden brooms opened on her passage and sent forth their aromas as much as they could. The whole mountain celebrated her arrival.

You can imagine, Gringoire, how our goat was happy! No rope any more, no longer attached to any stake… And there was all the tall grass one could want! It rose up over her horns, my dear!… And what grass! Savorous, delicate, jagged, made up of many different varieties… It was just so much better than the ordinary grass of the enclosure! And just imagine the flowers… Large blue bellflowers, purple foxgloves with long calyxes, a whole forest of wildflowers overflowing with captivating juices…

The white she-goat lay down half inebriated in all that splendour with her legs up in the air and rolled along the embankment among the fallen leaves and the chestnuts… Then she bounded up on her four legs and shot off with her head down through the mountain brush and bushes, now on a height, now in the depths of a valley, up there, down here, everywhere… One might have said that there were ten of Monsieur Seguin’s goats on the mountain.

For Blanquette wasn’t afraid of anything.

With one jump she bounded over great torrents of water that covered her dusty fur in passing with humidity and spray. Then, all dripping, she would lie down on a nice flat rock and let herself be dried out by the sun… Once, advancing to the edge of a plateau, she saw far down in the plain the house of Monsieur Seguin with the enclosure behind it. That sight made her laugh to tears.

“It’s just so small!” she exclaimed, “How did I ever stand it down there?”

The poor thing! Seeing herself perched so high all alone up there she thought that she was at least as grand as the whole world…

All in all, it was a good day for Monsieur Seguin’s she-goat. Towards the middle of the day, running on the right and on the left, she came upon a troop of chamois biting with gusto into a set of wild roses. Our little runner in her white robe made a great sensation among them. They gave her the best place and all the male chamois were very galant with her... It even seemed – this should remain with us, Gringoire – that a young male chamois with black fur had the good fortune to please Blanquette. The two amorous ones went off among the trees for an hour or two, and if you want to know what they said to each other, you should ask the gossipy springs that run invisibly under the moss...

All at once the wind freshened and the mountain became violet: it was the evening…

Down below the fields were enveloped in mist. The enclosure of Monsieur Seguin disappeared in the haze and only the roof of the little house could be seen with a little bit of smoke coming out of the chimney.

“Already!” the little she-goat exclaimed, and she stopped short, astonished.

She listened to the little bells of the troop that was being gathered up, and she felt sadness coming over her… A falcon that was coming back to roost brushed against her with its wings. She shuddered… Then she heard a howling in the mountain: “Hooooo... hooooo!”

She thought of the wolf that she’d forgotten about the whole day long... At the same moment a trumpet call sounded down in the valley. It was the good Monsieur Seguin making a last effort to call her back: “Come back, come back!” the trumpet was telling her.

Blanquette was tempted to go back, but she remembered the stake and the rope and the hawthorn hedge around the enclosure, and she thought that she could never again get used to that life and that it was better to stay up in the mountain.

The trumpet didn’t sound any more…

She heard a rustling in the leaves behind her. She turned around and saw in the shadows two short ears raised straight up and two shining eyes… It was the wolf!

Enormous, immobile, sitting on his rear end, he was looking at the little white she-goat and was tasting her in anticipation. As he knew that he would end up by eating her, he wasn’t in a hurry: he just began to laugh meanly when she turned around: “Ha! Monsieur Seguin’s little goat!” and he passed his long red tongue over his ardent lips.

Blanquette felt herself lost… For a moment she remembered the account of what had happened to the old Renaude, who’d fought all night long only to be eaten in the morning, and she said to herself that it would perhaps be best just to let herself be eaten right away; and then, changing her mind, she set herself on guard with her head lowered and her horns pointing forward like the brave she-goat of Monsieur Seguin that she was… Not that she had any hope of killing the wolf, but only to see if she could hold out as long as Renaude had…

Then the monster advanced and the little horns began to dance.

Ah, the courageous little she-goat, how she went at it with a full heart! I’m not lying, Gringoire: more than six times she forced the wolf to retreat to recover his breath. During these minute-long truces the hungry little goat hurriedly gathered up a few clumps of her beloved long grass, and then returned to the combat with her mouth full… That lasted all night. From time to time Monsieur Seguin’s goat looked up a the stars dancing in the clear shy and she said to herself: “Oh, if only I can hold out until dawn”…

One after the other the stars died out. Blanquette redoubled the blows of her horns and the wolf redoubled his bites… A pale glow appeared on the horizon… The hoarse crowing of a cock rose up from the farm.

“At last!” the poor animal exclaimed, who had only been waiting for the day to appear before dying; and she laid down on the ground with her lovely white coat all stained with blood.

Then the wolf threw itself on the little she-goat and ate her.

Good-bye Gringoire !

The story that you’ve just heard isn’t one that I invented. If ever you come down to Provence, the local folk here will often talk to you of the cabro de moussu Seguin, que se battégue touto la neui emé lou loup, e piei lou matin lou loup la mangé [3].

Do you understand, Gringoire? : E piei lou matin lou loup la mangé.

LA CHÈVRE DE MONSIEUR SEGUIN

M. Seguin avait derrière sa maison un clos entouré d’aubépines. C’est là qu’il mit sa nouvelle pensionnaire. Il l’attacha à un pieu, au plus bel endroit du pré, en ayant soin de lui laisser beaucoup de corde, et de temps en temps il venait voir si elle était bien. La chèvre se trouvait très heureuse et broutait l’herbe de si bon cœur que M. Seguin était ravi.
— Enfin, pensait le pauvre homme, en voilà une qui ne s’ennuiera pas chez moi !
M. Seguin se trompait, sa chèvre s’ennuya.

Un jour, elle se dit en regardant la montagne :
— Comme on doit être bien là-haut ! Quel plaisir de gambader dans la bruyère, sans cette maudite longe qui vous écorche le cou !… C’est bon pour l’âne ou pour le bœuf de brouter dans un clos !… Les chèvres, il leur faut du large.
À partir de ce moment, l’herbe du clos lui parut fade. L’ennui lui vint. Elle maigrit, son lait se fit rare. C’était pitié de la voir tirer tout le jour sur sa longe, la tête tournée du côté de la montagne, la narine ouverte, en faisant Mê !… tristement.
M. Seguin s’apercevait bien que sa chèvre avait quelque chose, mais il ne savait pas ce que c’était… Un matin, comme il achevait de la traire, la chèvre se retourna et lui dit dans son patois :
— Écoutez, monsieur Seguin, je me languis chez vous, laissez-moi aller dans la montagne.
— Ah ! mon Dieu !… Elle aussi ! cria M. Seguin stupéfait, et du coup il laissa tomber son écuelle ; puis, s’asseyant dans l’herbe à côté de sa chèvre :
— Comment Blanquette, tu veux me quitter !
Et Blanquette répondit :
— Oui, monsieur Seguin.
— Est-ce que l’herbe te manque ici ?
— Oh ! non ! monsieur Seguin.
— Tu es peut-être attachée de trop court ; veux-tu que j’allonge la corde !
— Ce n’est pas la peine, monsieur Seguin.
— Alors, qu’est-ce qu’il te faut ! qu’est-ce que tu veux ?
— Je veux aller dans la montagne, monsieur Seguin.
— Mais, malheureuse, tu ne sais pas qu’il y a le loup dans la montagne… Que feras-tu quand il viendra ?…
— Je lui donnerai des coups de corne, monsieur Seguin.
— Le loup se moque bien de tes cornes. Il m’a mangé des biques autrement encornées que toi… Tu sais bien, la pauvre vieille Renaude qui était ici l’an dernier ? une maîtresse chèvre, forte et méchante comme un bouc. Elle s’est battue avec le loup toute la nuit… puis, le matin, le loup l’a mangée.
— Pécaïre ! Pauvre Renaude !… Ça ne fait rien, monsieur Seguin, laissez-moi aller dans la montagne.
— Bonté divine !… dit M. Seguin ; mais qu’est-ce qu’on leur fait donc à mes chèvres ? Encore une que le loup va me manger… Eh bien, non… je te sauverai malgré toi, coquine ! et de peur que tu ne rompes ta corde, je vais t’enfermer dans l’étable, et tu y resteras toujours.
Là-dessus, M. Seguin emporta la chèvre dans une étable toute noire, dont il ferma la porte à double tour. Malheureusement, il avait oublié la fenêtre, et à peine eut-il le dos tourné, que la petite s’en alla…
Tu ris, Gringoire ? Parbleu ! je crois bien ; tu es du parti des chèvres, toi, contre ce bon M. Seguin… Nous allons voir si tu riras tout à l’heure.
Quand la chèvre blanche arriva dans la montagne, ce fut un ravissement général. Jamais les vieux sapins n’avaient rien vu d’aussi joli. On la reçut comme une petite reine. Les châtaigniers se baissaient jusqu’à terre pour la caresser du bout de leurs branches. Les genêts d’or s’ouvraient sur son passage, et sentaient bon tant qu’ils pouvaient. Toute la montagne lui fit fête.
Tu penses, Gringoire, si notre chèvre était heureuse ! Plus de corde, plus de pieu… rien qui l’empêchât de gambader, de brouter à sa guise… C’est là qu’il y en avait de l’herbe ! jusque par-dessus les cornes, mon cher !… Et quelle herbe ! Savoureuse, fine, dentelée, faite de mille plantes… C’était bien autre chose que le gazon du clos. Et les fleurs donc !… De grandes campanules bleues, des digitales de pourpre à longs calices, toute une forêt de fleurs sauvages débordant de sucs capiteux !…
La chèvre blanche, à moitié soûle, se vautrait là dedans les jambes en l’air et roulait le long des talus, pêle-mêle avec les feuilles tombées et les châtaignes… Puis, tout à coup, elle se redressait d’un bond sur ses pattes. Hop ! la voilà partie, la tête en avant, à travers les maquis et les buissières, tantôt sur un pic, tantôt au fond d’un ravin, là-haut, en bas, partout… On aurait dit qu’il y avait dix chèvres de M. Seguin dans la montagne.
C’est qu’elle n’avait peur de rien la Blanquette.
Elle franchissait d’un saut de grands torrents qui l’éclaboussaient au passage de poussière humide et d’écume. Alors, toute ruisselante, elle allait s’étendre sur quelque roche plate et se faisait sécher par le soleil… Une fois, s’avançant au bord d’un plateau, une fleur de cytise aux dents, elle aperçut en bas, tout en bas dans la plaine, la maison de M. Seguin avec le clos derrière. Cela la fit rire aux larmes.
— Que c’est petit ! dit-elle ; comment ai-je pu tenir là dedans ?
Pauvrette ! de se voir si haut perchée, elle se croyait au moins aussi grande que le monde…
En somme, ce fut une bonne journée pour la chèvre de M. Seguin. Vers le milieu du jour, en courant de droite et de gauche, elle tomba dans une troupe de chamois en train de croquer une lambrusque à belles dents. Notre petite coureuse en robe blanche fit sensation. On lui donna la meilleure place à la lambrusque, et tous ces messieurs furent très galants… Il paraît même, — ceci doit rester entre nous, Gringoire, — qu’un jeune chamois à pelage noir, eut la bonne fortune de plaire à Blanquette. Les deux amoureux s’égarèrent parmi le bois une heure ou deux, et si tu veux savoir ce qu’ils se dirent, va le demander aux sources bavardes qui courent invisibles dans la mousse.

Tout à coup le vent fraîchit. La montagne devint violette ; c’était le soir…
— Déjà ! dit la petite chèvre ; et elle s’arrêta fort étonnée.
En bas, les champs étaient noyés de brume. Le clos de M. Seguin disparaissait dans le brouillard, et de la maisonnette on ne voyait plus que le toit avec un peu de fumée. Elle écouta les clochettes d’un troupeau qu’on ramenait, et se sentit l’âme toute triste… Un gerfaut, qui rentrait, la frôla de ses ailes en passant. Elle tressaillit… puis ce fut un hurlement dans la montagne :
— Hou ! hou !
Elle pensa au loup ; de tout le jour la folle n’y avait pas pensé… Au même moment une trompe sonna bien loin dans la vallée. C’était ce bon M. Seguin qui tentait un dernier effort.
— Hou ! hou !… faisait le loup.
— Reviens ! reviens !… criait la trompe.
Blanquette eut envie de revenir ; mais en se rappelant le pieu, la corde, la haie du clos, elle pensa que maintenant elle ne pouvait plus se faire à cette vie, et qu’il valait mieux rester.
La trompe ne sonnait plus…
La chèvre entendit derrière elle un bruit de feuilles. Elle se retourna et vit dans l’ombre deux oreilles courtes, toutes droites, avec deux yeux qui reluisaient… C’était le loup.

Énorme, immobile, assis sur son train de derrière, il était là regardant la petite chèvre blanche et la dégustant par avance. Comme il savait bien qu’il la mangerait, le loup ne se pressait pas ; seulement, quand elle se retourna, il se mit à rire méchamment.
— Ha ! ha ! la petite chèvre de M. Seguin ! et il passa sa grosse langue rouge sur ses babines d’amadou.
Blanquette se sentit perdue… Un moment en se rappelant l’histoire de la vieille Renaude, qui s’était battue toute la nuit pour être mangée le matin, elle se dit qu’il vaudrait peut-être mieux se laisser manger tout de suite ; puis, s’étant ravisée, elle tomba en garde, la tête basse et la corne en avant, comme une brave chèvre de M. Seguin qu’elle était… Non pas qu’elle eût l’espoir de tuer le loup, — les chèvres ne tuent pas le loup, — mais seulement pour voir si elle pourrait tenir aussi longtemps que la Renaude…
Alors le monstre s’avança, et les petites cornes entrèrent en danse.
Ah ! la brave chevrette, comme elle y allait de bon cœur ! Plus de dix fois, je ne mens pas, Gringoire, elle força le loup à reculer pour reprendre haleine. Pendant ces trêves d’une minute, la gourmande cueillait en hâte encore un brin de sa chère herbe ; puis elle retournait au combat, la bouche pleine… Cela dura toute la nuit. De temps en temps la chèvre de M. Seguin regardait les étoiles danser dans le ciel clair, et elle se disait :
— Oh ! pourvu que je tienne jusqu’à l’aube…
L’une après l’autre, les étoiles s’éteignirent. Blanquette redoubla de coups de cornes, le loup de coups de dents… Une lueur pâle parut dans l’horizon… Le chant d’un coq enroué monta d’une métairie.
— Enfin ! dit la pauvre bête, qui n’attendait plus que le jour pour mourir ; et elle s’allongea par terre dans sa belle fourrure blanche toute tachée de sang…
Alors le loup se jeta sur la petite chèvre et la mangea.

Adieu, Gringoire !
L’histoire que tu as entendue n’est pas un conte de mon invention. Si jamais tu viens en Provence, nos ménagers te parleront souvent de la cabro de moussu Seguin, que se battégue touto la neui emé lou loup, e piei lou matin lou loup la mangé.[1]
Tu m’entends bien, Gringoire :
E piei lou matin lou loup la mangé.