he skin with great interest,
Lisa especially; and she in her turn found fault with Leon because he
nipped the skin too tightly with his fingers, which caused knots to
form, she said. When the skin was quite full, Quenu let it slip gently
into a pot of boiling water; and seemed quite easy in his mind again,
for now nothing remained but to leave it to boil.

"And the man--go on about the man!" murmured Pauline, opening her eyes,
and surprised at no longer hearing the narrative.

Florent rocked her on his knee, and resumed his story in a slow,
murmuring voice, suggestive of that of a nurse singing an infant to
sleep.

"The man," he said, "arrived at a large town. There he was at first
taken for an escaped convict, and was kept in prison for several months.
Then he was released, and turned his hand to all sorts of work. He
kept accounts and taught children to read, and at one time he was even
employed as a navvy in making an embankment. He was continually hoping
to return to his own country. He had saved the necessary amount of money
when he was attacked by yellow fever. Then, believing him to be dead,
those about him divided his clothes amongst themselves; so that when he
at last recovered he had not even a shirt left. He had to begin all over
again. The man was very weak, and was afraid he might have to remain
where he was. But at last he was able to get away, and he returned."

His voice had sunk lower and lower, and now died away altogether in a
final quivering of his lips. The close of the story had lulled little
Pauline to sleep, and she was now slumbering with her head on Florent's
shoulder. He held her with one arm, and still gently rocked her on his
knee. No one seemed to pay any further attention to him, so he remained
still and quiet where he was, holding the sleeping child.

Now came the tug of war, as Quenu said. He had to remove the
black-puddings from the pot. In order to avoid breaking them or getting
them entangled, he coiled them round a thick wooden pin as he drew them
out, and then carried them into the yard and hung them on screens, where
they quickly dried. Leon helped him, holding up the drooping ends. And
as these reeking festoons of black-pudding crossed the kitchen they left
behind them a trail of odorous steam, which still further thickened the
dense atmosphere.

Auguste, on his side, after giving a hasty glance at the lard moulds,
now took the covers off the two pots in which the fat was si