It was, however, but too true: one little plump arm hung powerless.
"Let Meess" (meaning me) "take her," said Madame; "et qu'on aille tout de suite chercher un fiacre." In a _fiacre_ she promptly, but with admirable coolness and self-possession, departed to fetch a surgeon.
It appeared she did not find the family-surgeon at home; but that mattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on a substitute to her mind, and brought him back with her.

Meantime I had cut the child's sleeve from its arm, undressed and put it to bed.
We none of us, I suppose (by _we_ I mean the bonne, the cook, the portress, and myself, all which personages were now gathered in the small and heated chamber), looked very scrutinizingly at the new doctor when he came into the room.

I, at least, was taken up with endeavouring to soothe Fifine; whose cries (for she had good lungs) were appalling to hear.

These cries redoubled in intensity as the stranger approached her bed; when he took her up, "Let alone!" she cried passionately, in her broken English (for she spoke English as did the other children).
"I will not you: I will Dr.Pillule!" "And Dr.Pillule is my very good friend," was the answer, in perfect English; "but he is busy at a place three leagues off, and I am come in his stead.

So now, when we get a little calmer, we must commence business; and we will soon have that unlucky little arm bandaged and in right order." Hereupon he called for a glass of _eau sucree_, fed her with some teaspoonfuls of the sweet liquid (Fifine was a frank gourmande; anybody could win her heart through her palate), promised her more when the operation should be over, and promptly went to work.