The house was full of customers, and it might have been supposed that a visiting controller, a garde général, or even an under-prefect, had arrived, so loudly did he raise his voice, and such airs of importance did he give himself. Nickel the serving-man appeared at the outer gate in a state of alarm, crying, “Good gracious! what’s all this noise about?” “What’s it about, you unfortunate! Don’t you see the illustrious Doctor Mathéus, the inventor of the peregrination of souls, waiting for you to hold his stirrup? Make haste!—lead his horse to the stable; but, I warn you, I shall have an eye on the manger, and if there is but a single atom of straw amongst the oats, you shall answer to me for it on your head!” Mathéus then alighted, and the domestic hastened to obey the orders given him. The illustrious Doctor did not know that to enter the principal room it was necessary to pass through the kitchen; he was thus agreeably surprised by the spectacle offered to his view. They were in the midst of the preparations for the black-puddings; the fire burned brightly on the hearth; the dishes on the dresser-shelves shone like suns; little Michel stirred the contents of the pot with marvellous regularity; Dame Catherina Windling, her sleeves turned up to her elbows, stood before the tub, majestically holding the large ladle filled with milk, blood, onions, and chopped marjoram. She poured slowly, while fat Soffayel, her servant, held open the skin, so that the agreeable mixture might conveniently fill it. Coucou Peter remained like one petrified before this delicious picture; he opened his eyes, dilated his nostrils, and inhaled the perfume of the saucepans. At last, in expressive tones, he cried— “Good heavens! what a jollification we’re going to have here! what a feast!” Dame Catherina turned her head and joyously exclaimed— “Ah! Coucou Peter! I expected you! You never forget to come in time for the puddings.” “Forget! No, no, Dame Catherina, I’m incapable of such ingratitude. They’ve done me too much good for me ever to forget them.” Then, advancing with a grave air, he took from her hand the large ladle, plunged it into the tub, and for some seconds examined the mixture with a truly psychological attention. Dame Catherina crossed her red arms, and appeared to await his judgment; at the end of a minute he raised his head, and said— “With all due respect to you, Dame Catherina, a little more milk is wanted here; the milk should never be stinted—it gives the delicacy; it is, as one may say, the soul of the pudding.” “That’s just what I’ve been saying,” cried Mother Windling; “didn’t I say to you, Soffayel, that a little more milk would do no harm?” “Yes, Dame Catherina, you said that.” “Well, now I’m altogether sure of it. Run and fetch the milk-jug. How many ladlesful do you think, Coucou Peter?” The fiddler again examined the mixture, and replied—