Lowing more gently, Coliche stood motionless, staring at him with her big eyes. Then he sidled up to her and abruptly pressed his head roughly against her rump; his tongue was hanging out and pushing her tail to one side, he licked her all the way down her thighs; her skin could be seen rippling and quivering although she kept quite still as she let him do it. Jean and Françoise watched intently, their arms dangling limply at their sides.

And when he was ready, Caesar suddenly heaved himself up on to Coliche, so heavily and violently that the ground shook. She stood firm as he gripped her sides between his two legs. But she was a tall Cotentin cow, too broad and high for a bull of less powerful breed to reach. Caesar felt this and was helplessly trying to raise himself up.

‘He's too tiny,’ said Françoise.

‘Yes, a bit,’ said Jean. ‘Never mind, he'll manage it in time.’

She shook her head, and as Caesar was still groping and tiring himself, she took a decision.

‘It's no good, he's got to be helped. If he doesn't get in properly, it'll be wasted because she won't be able to hold it.’

Carefully, as though undertaking something of great importance, she stepped quickly forward with pursed lips and set face; her concentration made her eyes seem even darker. She had to reach right across with her arm as she grasped the bull's penis firmly in her hand and lifted it up. And when the bull felt that he was near the edge, he gathered his strength and, with one single thrust of his loins, pushed his penis right in. Then it came out again. It was all over; the dibble had planted the seed. As unmoved and as fertile as the earth when it is sown, the cow had stood four square and firm as the male seed spurted within her. Not even the bull's last powerful thrust had unsteadied her. And now he had already slipped down from her back, making the ground shake again.

Françoise had released her grip but was still holding her arm in the air. Finally, she let it drop, saying:

‘That's that.’

‘And very nice too,’ added Jean emphatically, with something of the satisfaction of a good workman seeing a job well and quickly done.

It never entered his head to make the sort of bawdy jokes which the farmhands indulged in when girls used to bring their cows to be covered. This young girl seemed to find it so completely normal and necessary that, in all decency, there was really nothing to laugh about. It was just natural.

But Jacqueline had been standing watching at the door again, and with a typical throaty chuckle she called out cheerfully:

‘Hi there, where've you been sticking your hand? I suppose your sweetheart hasn't got an eye at that end!’

Jean gave a guffaw and Françoise, embarrassed, turned suddenly red in the face and to hide her confusion, as Caesar went back of his own accord into the shed and Coliche stood nibbling at some oats growing on the dungheap, she fumbled in her pockets until she found her handkerchief, and undid one of the corners in which she had tied the two francs to pay for the bull.

‘Here's your money,’ she said. ‘And good afternoon to you.’

She went off with her cow and, picking up his bag again, Jean followed her, telling Jacqueline that, in accordance with Monsieur Hourdequin's instructions for his day's work, he was going off to Post Field.

‘All right,’ she replied, ‘the harrow should be down there by now.’

Then, as the young man caught up with the girl and the two of them went off in single file down the narrow path, she called after them in her coarse, fruity voice:

‘You won't worry if you both lose your way, will you? She knows how to find it.’

Once more, the farmyard was deserted. This time, neither of them had laughed. They walked on slowly, the silence broken only by their shoes scuffing the stones. All that he could see of her were the little black curls on the nape of her neck, like a child's, under her round cap. Finally, after they had walked about fifty yards, Françoise said soberly:

‘It's wrong of her to try and make fun of people, about men. I could have told her…’

And she turned towards the young man and looked up mischievously into his eyes:

‘It's true, isn't it, that she's deceiving Monsieur Hourdequin, just like she was already married to him? I suppose you might know something about that yourself, mightn't you?’

He looked flustered and a little silly.

‘Well, she can please herself, that's her business.’

Françoise had turned round and started walking again.

‘Yes, that's true enough. I'm joking because you're almost old enough to be my father and it doesn't really matter… But, you see, ever since Buteau played that dirty trick on my sister, I swore that I'd do anything rather than have a sweetheart.’

Jean shook his head and they fell silent. Post Field, a small one, lay at the end of the path, halfway to Rognes. When he reached it, he stopped. The harrow was waiting and a bag of seed had been emptied into a furrow. As he filled his seedbag from it he said:

‘Well, goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye,’ Françoise replied. ‘And thanks again.’

But a thought suddenly struck him, and he stood up and shouted after her:

‘I say, suppose Coliche misbehaves again, would you like me to come along with you to the farm?’

She was already some distance away and she turned and called out in her calm voice which echoed over the silent countryside:

‘No, there's no need, she won't be any trouble now.