"Since you, sir, are to be my master, I beg to tell you that our custom is capital. We have no more cutlets or legs of mutton left, and we must kill a sheep or two directly."
"Parbleu!" said Rodolph to the Chourineur; "here is a capital opportunity for exercising your skill. I should like to have the first sample,—the open air has given me an appetite, and I will taste your cutlets."
"You are very kind, M. Rodolph," said the Chourineur, in a cheerful voice; "you flatter me, but I will do my best."
"Shall I bring two sheep to the slaughter-house, master?" asked the journeyman.
"Yes; and bring a well-sharpened knife, not too thin in the blade, and strong in the back."
"I have just what you want, master. There, you could shave with it. Take it—"
"Tonnerre, M. Rodolph!" said the Chourineur, taking off his upper coat with haste, and turning up his shirtsleeves, which displayed a pair of arms like a prize-fighter's; "this reminds me of my boyish days and the slaughter-house. You shall see how I handle a knife! Nom de nom! I wish I was at it. The knife, lad! the knife! That's it; I see you know your trade. This is a blade! Who will have it? Tonnerre! with a tool like this I could face a wild bull."
And the Chourineur brandished his knife,—his eyes began to fill with blood; the beast was regaining the mastery; the instinct and thirst for blood reappeared in all the fullness of their fearful predominance.
The butchery was in the yard,—a vaulted, dark place, paved with stones, and lighted by a small, narrow opening at the top.
The man drove one of the sheep to the door.