e, that's a bad
sign, and shows that the blood is poor."

"But doesn't that depend on how far the knife has been stuck in?" asked
Quenu.

A smile came over Auguste's pale face. "No," he replied; "I always let
four digits of the blade go in; that's the right way to measure. But the
best sign of all is when the blood runs out and I beat it with my
hand when it pours into the pail; it ought to be of a good warmth, and
creamy, without being too thick."

Augustine had put down her needle, and with her eyes raised was now
gazing at Auguste. On her ruddy face, crowned by wiry chestnut hair,
there was an expression of profound attention. Lisa and even little
Pauline were also listening with deep interest.

"Well, I beat it, and beat it, and beat it," continued the young man,
whisking his hand about as though he were whipping cream. "And then,
when I take my hand out and look at it, it ought to be greased, as it
were, by the blood and equally coated all over. And if that's the case,
anyone can say without fear of mistake that the black-puddings will be
good."

He remained for a moment in an easy attitude, complacently holding his
hand in the air. This hand, which spent so much of its time in pails of
blood, had brightly gleaming nails, and looked very rosy above his white
sleeve. Quenu had nodded his head in approbation, and an interval
of silence followed. Leon was still mincing. Pauline, however, after
remaining thoughtful for a little while, mounted upon Florent's feet
again, and in her clear voice exclaimed: "I say, cousin, tell me the
story of the gentleman who was eaten by the wild beasts!"

It was probably the mention of the pig's blood which had aroused in the
child's mind the recollection of "the gentleman who had been eaten by
the wild beasts." Florent did not at first understand what she referred
to, and asked her what gentleman she meant. Lisa began to smile.

"She wants you to tell her," she said, "the story of that unfortunate
man--you know whom I mean--which you told to Gavard one evening. She
must have heard you."

At this Florent grew very grave. The little girl got up, and taking the
big cat in her arms, placed it on his knees, saying that Mouton also
would like to hear the story. Mouton, however, leapt on to the table,
where, with rounded back, he remained contemplating the tall, scraggy
individual who for the last fortnight had apparently afforded him matter
for deep reflection. Pauline meantime beg