THEOPHRASTE’S bones were not broken, and it only took six weeks to heal, although he was obliged to keep to his bed for two months, when he regained the use of his legs. During all this time he did not make a single allusion to the past. Cartouche was dead-quite dead. The operation had been successful, although very painful. So much so, that every one dreaded that he would remain a cripple to the end of his life; but he had recovered marvelously. He had obtained a new set of teeth, and was able to speak quite plainly, but it was a more difficult thing to rid himself of the effects of the boiling water in his ears, and at times he was perfectly deaf.

After a while ThÉophraste thought of occupying his mind by going back into business. He had retired when young, being able to live on the income derived from several inventions which he had made for the use of rubber stamps.

However, they were all very thankful for the result, and this slight inconvenience did not worry them.

It was his habit to rise early, and after breakfast he would go out for a little walk to strengthen his legs. He soon found their old elasticity, and regained their full use. On these occasions Adolphe used to follow a short distance behind in order to watch his movements and report to M. Eliphaste.

At first he noticed nothing abnormal in his behavior, and in his report contented himself with stating this unimportant fact, that he stopped quite a while before a butcher’s stall. If this had occurred only once, it would have passed the watchful Adolphe unnoticed. However, it became a regular thing for ThÉophraste to stand looking at the bloody meat, and spend some time talking to the butcher, a square-shouldered, florid fellow, always ready with a jest.

One day, when M. Lecamus had decided that ThÉophraste had spent too much time at the butcher’s shop, he came up to him, as if by chance, and found him, with the butcher, decorating all the fresh meat with curl papers. This was innocent enough. Thus judged M. Eliphaste, although he wrote in the margin of the report:

“He may look at the meat in the butcher’s shop. It is good to let him see blood sometimes. It is the end of the crisis, and can do no harm.”

This butchery was a small one, and had its specialty. M. Houdry sold among other ordinary meats a special quality of veal. The secret of this quality lay in the way it was killed. The majority of Paris butchers obtain their meat from the abattoirs, but M. Houdry always bought his alive, and killed it himself, in his own way. He was not satisfied to knock the calf in the head, as they did at the abattoirs. He bled it after the Jewish manner, with a large knife which he called the bleeder, and so dexterous had he become in this art that he never had to cut the same wound twice. He had gained some reputation as a good butcher.

M. Houdry had explained the case about his veal to M. Longuet, with the greatest mystery, and he had evidently taken great pleasure in it- so much so that ThÉophraste, after having listened to the theory, had shown the desire to assist at a practical lesson. In a small court adjacent to the store, M. Houdry had a secret abattoir. On a certain morning, ThÉophraste, who happened there at a much earlier hour than was his custom, found his man at the abattoir with a calf. The butcher begged him to come in, and to close the doors behind him. “I shut myself up every day thus with a live calf,” said M. Houdry, “and when the doors of the abattoir are opened again, the calf is dead. I lose no time; I have operated in twenty-five minutes.”

ThÉophraste congratulated him. He asked him many questions, interesting himself in all the objects which struck his attention. The bellows with its large arms drew his attention. He also saw a windlass. He learned that that strong oak cross-bar, with pegs in it, supported the windlass and the bucket. He admired the solid oak hand-barrow also. A chopper which was drawn up was called a “leaf.” But that which interested him more was a set of tools hung on the walls in the shop. In this “shop,” which was sort of saddle-bags for cutlass, he saw first of all the bleeder, and was pleased to pass his finger over the long, strong and sharpened edge. Then there was a much smaller knife, called the “Moutoniner,” used ordinarily to cut up mutton, as the name indicates, but which was used there to cut certain parts of veal. Then some other small knives, among which was the canut, used in “flowering” the veal. “Flowering” the veal consists in making light, artistic designs on the shin of the veal, as soon as it is bleached.

The first day M. Longuet received instructions about the tools. But in the following days he learned the art of the whole operation, and entered into each detail with little repugnance. He used to say, some days, in going away, jestingly: “You kill a calf every day; you must be careful, my dear M. Houdry, you see it will end by its becoming known to the other calves.”

ThÉophraste was not idle, either. Whenever he had an opportunity he would help M. Houdry in these killings. One day the assistant did not come, and ThÉophraste helped rope up the calf for killing. As he was doing this, M. Houdry remarked on the evil of killing the calf by striking him on the head, as they did at the abattoir.

ThÉophraste declared it was a crime, and most inhuman. “It is much finer to do it with the bleeder. One blow is sufficient, and the head is off. What a fine death. How the blood flows, and with what dispatch does he die.”

“Ah,” said ThÉophraste, who had killed the calf, “see the calf’s eyes, as the blood flows. How they stare at you. They are dead, but they look at you!”

“What is the matter with the calf’s eyes?” demanded M. Houdry. “They are like the rest. Ah, you think it is a joke? Well, well, you are not so used to it as I.”

M. Houdry then prepared the meat for selling, and while he was doing so ThÉophraste took the head, cleaned it and cut out the eyes. The sight of the blood had excited him beyond control, and M. Houdry was amused when he desired to take the head and feet home with him.

In parting he said: “Au revoir, M. Houdry, au revoir. I will take the head away with me, but I leave you the eyes. I do not like eyes to stare at me. You must not laugh at me, though. You do not understand me. However, it is my affair, and you must be glad that you are not afraid of dead eyes staring at you.”

And so he returned home, and when he appeared at the door of his house with the calf’s head under his arm, Adolphe and Marceline smiled, saying: “He is amusing himself with some innocent prank.”