At that moment Coucou Peter entered, carrying a dishful of smoking puddings, laughing heartily, and with the merriest face that ever was seen. “Ah, Doctor Frantz!” he cried; “ah, Doctor Frantz, what a scent! What a taste! All blood, bacon-fat, and cream! Fancy, Papa Mathéus, I’ve already gobbled up one half an ell long, and that’s only given me an appetite!” As he spoke he deposited his large dish upon the table, with an air of adoration; then, spreading himself against the wall, he untied his cravat, opened his waistcoat, undid the three top buttons of his breeches, to make himself quite at ease, and breathed a profound sigh. Fat Soffayel followed him with plates, covers, and a big loaf of mixed wheat and rye, just out of the oven; she ranged all in neat order, and Coucou Peter, taking up a large horn-handled knife, cried— “Now, Dame Windling, sit you down by the Doctor. Ha! ha! ha! A happy meeting!” Then, turning up his sleeves, he sliced up the pudding, and, raising a piece on his long fork, placed it on Mathéus’s plate. “Master Frantz,” he said, “introduce me that into your organism, and then tell me what you think of it.” At the same moment he noticed that the bottle was empty, and uttered an exclamation of surprise— “Soffayel! don’t you know that black-pudding likes to swim?” The servant, ashamed of her forgetfulness, hurried away to the cellar; but in the kitchen she met Tapihans, and said to him, in a bantering tone— “Aha!—poor Tapihans, poor Tapihans! The cuckoo sings in the house; you’d better go and look for another nest!” Directly afterwards, Tapihans, yellow and pale, with pointed nose, long ears, and a cotton cap on the top of his head, a hunch on his back, and his hands tucked in the pockets of his grey waistcoat, appeared in the doorway. “Ah! is that you, Tapihans?” cried Coucou Peter; “you’ve come just in time to see us eat.” The little man advanced into the very middle of the room, and for some seconds looked at the company, but mostly at the illustrious Doctor and the widow, who did not deign even to turn her head towards him. His nose seemed to swell visibly; then, parting his lips, he said— “Good evening, Dame Catherina.” “Good evening,” she replied, swallowing a piece of pudding. The miller did not stir from his place, and watched the Doctor, who watched him, thinking: “This man cannot belong to any but the fox species—a race given to plunder and possessed of little delicacy; moreover, he is attacked by a never-dying worm; his pale complexion, sharp cheek-bones, and keen eyes are bad signs.” After making these observations, he drank a glass of wolxheim, which appeared to him delicious. “So you’re not married yet, Tapihans?” cried Coucou Peter, between two mouthfuls of pudding. The little man returned no answer, but pressed his lips closer together. “A piece more pudding, Doctor,” said the widow, with a tender look; “a little piece more.”