in order to melt down some lard, began to prepare the black-puddings. Auguste assisted him. At one corner of the square table Lisa and Augustine sat mending linen, whilst opposite to them, on the other side, with his face turned towards the fireplace, was Florent. Leon was mincing some sausage-meat on the oak block in a slow, rhythmical fashion.
Auguste first of all went out into the yard to fetch a couple of jug-like cans full of pigs’ blood. It was he who stuck the animals in the slaughter house. He himself would carry away the blood and interior portions of the pigs, leaving the men who scalded the carcasses to bring them home completely dressed in their carts. Quenu asserted that no assistant in all Paris was Auguste’ equal as a pig-sticker. The truth was that Auguste was a wonderfully keen judge of the quality of the blood; and the black-pudding proved good every time that he said such would be the case.
“Well, will the black-pudding be good this time?” asked Lisa.
August put down the two cans and slowly answered: “I believe so, Madame Quenu; yes, I believe so. I tell it at first by the way the blood flows. If it spurts out very gently when I pull out the knife, 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 began to grow impatient, stamping her feet and insisting on hearing the story.
“Oh, tell her what she wants,” said Lisa, as the child persisted and became quite unbearable; “she’ll leave us in peace then.”
Florent remained silent for a moment longer, with his eyes turned towards the floor. Then slowly raising his head he let his gaze rest first on the two women who were plying their needles, and next on Quenu and Auguste, who were preparing the pot for the black-puddings. The gas was burning quietly, the stove diffused a gentle warmth, and all the grease of the kitchen glistened in an atmosphere of comfort such as attends good digestion
Then, taking little Pauline upon his knee, and smiling a sad smile, Florent addressed himself to the child as follows[*]: —
[*] Florent’s narrative is not romance, but is based on the
statements of several of the innocent victims whom the third
Napoleon transported to Cayenne when wading through blood to
the power which he so misused. — Translator.
“Once upon a time there was a poor man who was sent away, a long, long way off, right across the sea. On the ship which carried him were four hundred convicts, and he was thrown among them. He was forced to live for five weeks amidst all those scoundrels, dressed like them in coarse canvas, and feeding at their mess. Foul insects preyed on him, and terrible sweats robbed him of all his strength. The kitchen, the bakehouse, and the engine-room made the orlop deck so terribly hot that ten of the convicts died from it. In the daytime they were sent up in batches of fifty to get a little fresh air from the sea; and as the crew of the ship feared them, a couple of cannons were pointed at the little bit of deck where they took exercise. The poor fellow was very glad indeed when his turn to go up came. His terrible perspiration then abated somewhat; still, he could not eat, and felt very ill. During the night, when he was manacled again, and the rolling of the ship in the rough sea kept knocking him against his companions, he quite broke down, and began to cry, glad to be able to do so without being seen.”
Pauline was listening with dilated eyes, and her little hands crossed primly in front of her.
“But this isn’t the story of the gentleman who was eaten by the wild beasts,” she interrupted. “This is quite a different story; isn’t it now, cousin?”
“Wait a bit, and you’ll see,” replied Florent gently. “I shall come to the gentleman presently. I’m telling you the whole story from the beginning.”
“Oh, thank you,” murmured the child, with a delighted expression. However, she remained thoughtful, evidently struggling with some great difficulty to which she could find no explanation. At last she spoke.
“But what had the poor man done,” she asked, “that he was sent away and put in the ship?”
Lisa and Augustine smiled. They were quite charmed with the child’s intelligence; and Lisa, without giving the little one a direct reply, took advantage of the opportunity to teach her a lesson by telling her that naughty children were also sent away in boats like that.
“Oh, then,” remarked Pauline judiciously, “perhaps it served my cousin’s poor man quite right if he cried all night long.”
Lisa resumed her sewing, bending over her work. Quenu had not listened. He had been cutting some little rounds of onion over a pot placed on the fire; and almost at once the onions began to crackle, raising a clear shrill chirrup like that of grasshoppers basking in the heat. They gave out a pleasant odour too, and when Quenu plunged his great wooden spoon into the pot the chirruping became yet louder, and the whole kitchen was filled with the penetrating perfume of the onions. Auguste meantime was preparing some bacon fat in a dish, and Leon’s chopper fell faster and faster, and every now and then scraped the block so as to gather together the sausage-meat, now almost a paste.
“When they got across the sea,” Florent continued, “they took the man to an island called the Devil’s Island,[*] where he found himself amongst others who had been carried away from their own country. They
