s most intelligent. When we spoke to
ours and stroked her and kissed her, she understood us, and with her big
round eyes which looked so soft, she knew well enough how to make us
know what she wanted and what she did not want. In fact, she loved us
and we loved her, and that is all there is to say. However, we had to
part with her, for it was only by the sale of the cow that Barberin's
husband would be satisfied.

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."

Just because I was so anxious to know what the flour was for I did not
dare ask. And besides I did not want her to know that I remembered that
it was Shrove Tuesday for fear she might feel unhappy.

"What does one m