if crushed into powder, is a sovereign remedy for apoplexy?”
“You intend to kill my goat?” exclaimed Thibault, at the same time leaving hold of the goat’s horns, and dropping its foot, “but I will not have it killed.”
“Fie, fie!” said Engoulevent, “that is not at all a becoming speech, Monsieur Thibault, would you value the life of our good master as of no more worth than that of your wretched goat? I am truly ashamed for you.”
“It’s easy for you to talk. This goat is all I have to depend upon, the only thing I possess. She gives me milk, and I am fond of her.”
“Ah! Monsieur Thibault, you cannot be thinking of what you are saying—it is fortunate that the Baron does not hear you—for he would be brokenhearted to know that his precious life was being bargained for in that miserly way.”