"Then, if it's not you, my fat beauty, please put yourself to bed. You want it badly."
She made no answer, nor did she go. He was already examining the cow.
"Heavens! she's in a wretched state, this beast of yours. You always come for me too late, you clumsy wretches!"
They all listened to him with a respectful, despondent, hang-dog look; that is, all of them excepting La Frimat, who screwed up her lips in high disdain. Patoir, taking off his coat and turning up his shirt sleeves, proceeded to make an elaborate examination.
"Of course," he resumed, after an instant's pause, "it's exactly as I thought. Let me tell you, my children, it's all up with this calf of yours. I've no wish to cut my fingers against his teeth, in turning him round. Besides, I shouldn't get him out any the more if I did so, and I should certainly damage the mother."
Françoise burst into sobs.
"Monsieur Patoir," said she, "I implore you, save our cow. Poor Coliche! she's so fond of me!"
Both Lise, sallow with a fit of griping, and Buteau, in rude health, so unfeeling as they were regarding the woes of others, now lamented and softened, making the same supplication.
"Save our cow, our old cow that has given us such good milk for years and years," they begged in chorus. "Pray save her, Monsieur Patoir."