"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