“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 simmering, and each bursting bubble discharged an acrid vapour into the kitchen.  The greasy haze had been gradually rising ever since the beginning of the evening, and now it shrouded the gas and pervaded the whole room, streaming everywhere, and veiling the ruddy whiteness of Quenu and his two assistants.  Lisa and Augustine had risen from their seats; and all were panting as though they had eaten too much.

Augustine carried the sleeping Pauline upstairs; and Quenu, who liked to fasten up the kitchen himself, gave Auguste and Leon leave to go to bed, saying that he would fetch the black-pudding himself.  The younger apprentice stole off with a very red face, having managed to secrete under his shirt nearly a yard of the pudding, which must have almost scalded him.  Then the Quenus and Florent remained alone, in silence.  Lisa stood nibbling a little piece of the hot pudding, keeping her pretty lips well apart all the while, for fear of burning them, and gradually the black compound vanished in her rosy mouth.

“Well,” said she, “La Normande was foolish in behaving so rudely; the black-pudding’s excellent to-day.”