"Oh, dear, no, Father Châtelain! God forbid! I hope and believe our dear mademoiselle is only just a little struck with the cold of the night, and her walk perhaps fatigued her. I trust she will be quite well by to-morrow; indeed Madame Georges told me as much, and said that, if she had had any fears, she should have sent to Paris for M. David, the negro doctor, who took such care of mademoiselle when she was so ill. Well, I cannot make out how any one can endure a black doctor! For my part I should not have the slightest confidence in anything he said or did. No, no! if one must have a doctor, let it be a Christian man with a white skin; but a downright blackamoor! O saints above! why, the very sight of him by my bedside would kill me!" "But did not this Monsieur David cure Mlle. Marie from the long illness with which she suffered when she first came here?" inquired the old man. "Yes, Father Châtelain, he certainly did." "Well?" "Ah! but for all that, Father Châtelain, a doctor with a black face is enough to terrify any one--I should scream myself into fits if he were to come rolling up the great whites of his eyes at me." "But is not this M. David the same person who cured Dame Anica of that dreadful wound in her leg, which had confined her to her bed for upwards of three years?" "Yes, exactly so, Father Châtelain; he certainly did set old Dame Anica up again." "Well, then, my child?" "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?" "To be sure! why, Father Châtelain, what difference can it possibly make to the milk whether the cow that gives it is black, white, red, or brown?" "How, then, my good girl, can it in any way signify whether a doctor has a black or white skin, or what his complexion may be?"