"Nay, but only think!—a black man! and when one is ill, too! when one can so ill bear up against such horrid things. If he were only a little dark, or even deep brown, but quite, quite a black—all black—oh, Father Châtelain, I really cannot bring myself to think of it!"
"Tell me, my child, what colour is your favourite heifer Musette?"
"Oh, white—white as a swan, Father Châtelain; and such a milcher! I can say that for the poor thing without the least falsehood, a better cow we have not got on the farm."
"And your other favourite, Rosette?"
"Rosette? Oh, she is as black as a raven, not one white hair about her I should say; and, indeed, to do her justice, she is a first-rate milcher also. I hardly know which is the best, she or my pretty Musette."
"And what coloured milk does she give?"
"Why, white, of course, Father Châtelain; I really thought you knew that."
"Is her milk as white and as good as the milk of your snowy pet, Musette?"
"Every bit as good in colour and quality."
"Although Rosette is a black cow?"