Buteau hastily whipped up his horse, and the cart on its way to Cloyes vanished amid the falling shades of night.
When Patoir at last arrived, two hours later, everything was in the same state: La Coliche lay groaning on her side, and Lise, writhing like a worm, was half falling off her chair. Things had lasted thus for twenty-four hours.
"Which is my patient, hey?" asked the veterinary, who was of a jovial disposition.
"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."
"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."
"Well, one thing must be clearly understood: I shall be forced to cut up the calf."
"Who cares a curse for the calf? Save our cow, Monsieur Patoir, save her!"
Then the veterinary, who had brought a large blue apron with him, borrowed a pair of canvas trousers. Stripping himself quite naked in a corner, behind Rougette, he slipped on the trousers, and then tied the apron round his loins. When he re-appeared in this scanty costume, with his genial bull-dog face and his fat and dumpy figure, La Coliche lifted her head and, no doubt from astonishment, ceased to complain. However, no one even smiled, so wrung with anxiety was every heart.