A cattle dealer came to our house, and after thoroughly examining Rousette,—all the time shaking his head and saying that she would not suit him at all, he could never sell her again, she had no milk, she made bad butter,—he ended by saying that he would take her, but only out of kindness because Mother Barberin was an honest good woman.
Poor Rousette, as though she knew what was happening, refused to come out of the barn and began to bellow.
“Go in at the back of her and chase her out,” the man said to me, holding out a whip which he had carried hanging round his neck.
“No, that he won’t,” cried mother. Taking poor Rousette by the loins, she spoke to her softly: “There, my beauty, come… come along then.”
Rousette could not resist her, and then, when she got to the road, the man tied her up behind his cart and his horse trotted off and she had to follow.
We went back to the house, but for a long time we could hear her bellowing. No more milk, no butter! In the morning a piece of bread, at night some potatoes with salt.
Shrove Tuesday happened to be a few days after we had sold the cow. The year before Mother Barberin had made a feast for me with pancakes and apple fritters, and I had eaten so many that she had beamed and laughed with pleasure. But now we had no Rousette to give us milk or butter, so there would be no Shrove Tuesday, I said to myself sadly.
But Mother Barberin had a surprise for me. Although she was not in the habit of borrowing, she had asked for a cup of milk from one of the neighbors, a piece of butter from another, and when I got home about midday she was emptying the flour into a big earthenware bowl.
“Oh,” I said, going up to her, “flour?”
“Why, yes,” she said, smiling, “it’s flour, my little Remi, beautiful flour. See what lovely flakes it makes.”