"You will kill me first, villain!" cried the mother superior, throwing herself upon the young girl, whom she held within her arms, at the same time crying out, "Help! help!"
At this moment lights could be seen coming and going at a distance from the bottom of the garden.
"Here comes somebody at last!" screamed Sister Prudence, redoubling her cries of "Help! help!"
"Madame," said the captain, "let loose Dolores immediately!" And he forcibly withdrew the young girl from the obstinate embrace, holding Sister Prudence until Dolores could spring into the hammock. Seeing her safely seated there, the captain called:
"Ho there! Hoist."
And the hammock rose rapidly, so light was the weight of the young girl.
Sister Prudence, thoroughly enraged, and thinking thathelp would come perhaps too late, for the lights were still distant, screamed louder than ever, and threw herself on the hammock, to hold it down; but the captain drew her arm familiarly within his own, and, in spite of her struggles, held her like a vice.
"'You shall not escape me.'" Original etching by Adrian Marcel."'You shall not escape me.'"Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
"Dolores," said the captain, "do not be afraid, my love. When you reach the large branches, yield yourself without fear to the motion which will draw the hammock outside the wall. Sans-Plume is on the other side, and he is watching everything. Tell him, as soon as you reach the earth, to throw me the knotted rope, and hold it well on the outside."
"Yes, my Horatio," said Dolores, who was already eight or ten feet above the earth; "be calm, our love doubles my courage."
And the young mocker, leaning out of the hammock, said, with a laugh;
"Good evening, Sister Prudence, good evening!"
"You will be damned, accursed creature," said the mother superior.
"But you, you wretch! you shall not escape me," added she, holding on with desperate and convulsive anger to the captain's arm.
"They are coming, and you will be taken."
In fact, the lights were becoming more and more visible, and the captain could distinctly hear the voices of persons calling:
"Sister Prudence! Sister Prudence!"
The arrival of this aid increased the strength of the mother superior, who still clinched the arm of Horace. She was beginning to embarrass the sailor quite seriously; he could not resort to violence to escape this aged woman. In the meanwhile, the lights and the voices came nearer and nearer, and Sans-Plume, occupied, no doubt, in assuring the safe descent of Dolores on the other side of the wall, had not yet thrown the rope, his only means of flight. Then wishing, at any cost, toextricate himself from the grasp of the sister, the captain said to her:
"I pray you, madame, release me."
"Never, villain. Help, help!"
"Then pardon me, madame, because you force me to it. I am going to dance with you an infernal waltz, a riotous polka."
"A polka with me! You dare!"
"Come, madame, since you insist upon it we must. Keep time to the air. Tra, la, la, la."
And joining the act to the words, the merry sailor passed the arm that was free around the bony waist of Sister Prudence, and carried her with him, singing his refrain and whirling her around with such rapidity that, at the end of a few seconds, bewildered, dizzy, and suffocated, she could only gasp the syllables:
"Ah, help—help—you—wretch! He—takes—my—breath! Help—help!"
And soon overcome by the rapid whirling, Sister Prudence felt her strength failing. The captain saw her about to faint on his arms, and only had time to lay her gently on the grass.
"Ho!" at this moment cried Sans-Plume on the other side of the wall, as he threw over the knotted rope to the captain.
"The devil, it is high time!" said the captain, rushing after the rope, for the lights and the persons who carried them were no more than fifty steps distant.
Armed with pitchforks and guns, they approached the mother superior, who had recovered sufficiently to point over the wall as she said:
"There he is getting away!"
One of the men, armed with a gun, guided by her gesture, saw the captain, who, thanks to his agility as a sailor, had just gained the crest of the wall.
The man fired his gun, but missed his aim.
"You! You!" cried he to another man armed likehimself. "There he is on the top of the wall reaching for the branches of that tree,—fire!"
The second shot was fired just at the moment when Captain Horace, astride one of the branches projecting over the garden, was approaching the trunk of the tree, by means of which he meant to descend on the outside. Scarcely had the second shot been fired, when Horace made a sudden leap, stopped a moment, and then disappeared in the thick foliage of the trees.
"Run! run outside!" cried Sister Prudence, still panting for breath. "There is still time to catch them!"
The orders of the mother superior were executed, but when they arrived on the boulevard outside, Dolores, the captain, and Sans-Plume had disappeared. They found nothing but the hammock, which was lying a few steps from the spy, who, enveloped in his bag, dolefully uttering smothered groans at the bottom of the ditch.
Eight days after the abduction of Dolores Salcedo by Captain Horace, Abbé Ledoux, in bed, received the visit of his physician.
The invalid, lying in a soft bed standing in the alcove of a comfortable apartment, had always a fat and ruddy face; his triple chin descended to the collar of a fine shirt made of Holland cloth, and the purple brilliancy of the holy man's complexion contrasted with the immaculate whiteness of his cotton cap, bound, according to the ancient custom, with an orange-coloured ribbon. Notwithstanding these indications of plethoric health, the abbé, his head propped on his pillow in a doleful manner, uttered from time to time the most plaintive groans, while his hand, small and effeminate, was given to his physician, who was gravely feeling his pulse.
Doctor Gasterini,—such was the name of the physician,—although seventy-five years old, did not look sixty. Tall and erect, as well as lean and nervous, with a clear complexion and rosy lips, the doctor, when he smiled with his pleasant, elegant air, disclosed thirty-two teeth of irreproachable whiteness, which seemed to combine the polish of ivory with the sharp durability of steel; a forest of white hair, naturally curled, encircled the amiable and intelligent face of the doctor. Dressed always in black, with a certain affectation, he remained faithful to the tradition of small-clothes made of silk cloth, with shoe buckles of gold, and silk stockings, which clearly delineated his strong, sinewy legs.
Doctor Gasterini was holding delicately between his thumb and his index finger—whose rosy polished nails might have been the envy of a pretty woman—the wrist of his patient, who religiously awaited the decision of his physician.
"My dear abbé," said the doctor, "you are not at all sick."
"But, doctor—"
"You have a soft, pliant skin, and sixty-five pulsations to the minute. It would be impossible to find conditions of better health."
"But, again, doctor, I—"
"But, again, abbé, you are not sick. I am a good judge, perhaps."
"And I tell you, doctor, that I have not closed my eyes the whole night. Madame Siboulet, my housekeeper, has been on her feet constantly,—she gave me several times some drops made by the good sisters."
"Stuff!"
"And orange flower distilled at the Sacred Heart."
"The devil!"
"Yes, doctor, you may laugh; none of these remedies have given me relief. I have done nothing but turn over and over all night long in my bed. Alas, alas! I am not well. I have an excitement, an insupportable weariness."
"Perhaps, my dear abbé, you experienced yesterday some annoyance, some contradiction, and as you are very obstinate, very conceited, very spiteful—"
"I?"
"You."
"Doctor, I assure you—"
"This annoyance, I tell you, might have put you in a diabolical humour; for I know no remedy which can prevent these vexations. As to being ill, or even indisposed, you are not the least so in the world, my dear abbé."
"Then why did I ask you to come to see me this morning?"
"You ought to know that better than I, my dear abbé; nevertheless, I suspect the unusual motive which has made you desire my visit."
"That is rather hard."
"No, not very hard, for we are old acquaintances, and I know all your tricks, my dear abbé."
"My tricks!—you know my tricks?"
"You contrive excellent ones, sometimes,—but to return to our subject, I believe that, under a pretext of sickness which really does not exist, you have sent for me to learn from me, directly or indirectly, something which is of interest to you."
"Come, doctor, that is rather a disagreeable pleasantry."
"Wait, my dear abbé. In my youth I was physician to the Duke d'Otrante, when he was minister of police. He enjoyed, like you, perfect health, yet there was scarcely a day that he did not exact a visit from me. I was unsophisticated then, and, although well equipped in my profession, I had need of patrons, so, notwithstanding my visits to his Excellency seemed unnecessary, I went to his house regularly every day, about the hour he made his toilet, and we conversed. The minister was very inquisitive, and as I was professionally thrown with persons of all conditions, he, with charming good nature, plied me with questions concerning my patients. I responded with all the sincerity of my soul. One day I arrived, as I have told you, at the minister's house, when he had just completed his toilet, the very moment when a journeyman barber, the most uncleanly-looking knave I had ever seen in my life, had finished shaving him.
"'M. duke,' said I to the minister, after the barber had departed, 'how is it that, instead of being shaved by one of your valets, you prefer the services of thesefrightful journeyman barbers whom you change almost every fortnight?'
"'My dear,' replied the duke in a confidential tone, "'you cannot imagine how much one can learn about all sorts of people and things, when one knows how to set such fellows as that prattling.' Was this confession an amusement or a blunder on the part of this great man, or, rather, did he think me too silly to comprehend the full significance of his words? I do not know; but I do know that this avowal enlightened me as to the real intention of his Excellency in having me chat with him so freely every morning. After that, I responded with much circumspection to the questions of the cunning chief, who knew so well how to put in practice the transcendent maxim, 'The best spies are those who are spies without knowing it.'"
"The anecdote is interesting, as are all that you tell, my dear doctor," replied the abbé, with repressed anger, "but I swear to you that your allusion is entirely inapplicable, and that, alas! I am very sick."
"Forty years yet of such illness, and you will become a centenarian, my dear abbé," said the doctor, rising and preparing to take his leave.
"Oh, what a man! what a man!" cried the abbé. "Do listen to me, doctor, you have a heart of bronze; can you abandon a poor sick man in this manner? Give me five minutes!"
"So be it; let us chat if you wish it, my dear abbé. I have a quarter of an hour at your disposal; you are a man of mind, I cannot better employ the time given to this visit."
"Ah, doctor, you are cruel!"
"If you wish a more agreeable physician, address some others of my fraternity. You will find them eager to give their attention to the celebrated preacher, Abbé Ledoux, the most fashionable director of the Faubourg St. Germain—for, in spite of the Republic, or, forreason of the Republic, there is more than ever a Faubourg St. Germain, and, under every possible administration, the protection of Abbé Ledoux would be a lofty one."
"No, doctor, I want no other physician than you, terrible man that you are! Just see the confidence you inspire in me. It seems to me your presence has already done me good,—it calms me."
"Poor dear abbé, what confidence! It is touching; that certainly proves that it is only faith which saves."
"Do not speak of faith," said the abbé, affecting anger pleasantly. "Be silent, you pagan, materialist, atheist, republican, for you are and have been all, at your pleasure."
"Oh, oh, abbé, what an array of fine words!"
"You deserve them, wicked man; you will be damned, do you hear?—more than damned!"
"God may will it that we may meet each other some day, my poor abbé."
"I, damned?"
"Eh, eh."
"Do I abandon myself as you do to the brutality of all my appetites? Go,—you are a perfect Sardanapalus!"
"Flatterer! but then it is your manner. You reproach an old Lovelace for the enormities of which he would like to be guilty, and in the meantime you know that he has none of them; but it is all the same, your reproaches delight him, they render him cheerful; then he confesses all sorts of sins, of which, alas! he is incapable, poor man, and you have the air of giving a last pretext to his decaying imbecility."
"Fie! fie! doctor, the serpent had no more malignity than you."
"You reproach the broken-down politician, the powerless man of state, not less furiously, for his dark intrigues to overthrow the political world,—Europe, perhaps.Then with what unction the poor man relishes your reproaches! Everybody flies him like a pest when he opens his mouth to bore them with his politics; but what good fortune for him to unveil to you his Machiavellian projects for the advantage of the destinies of Europe, and to find a patient listener to the ravings of his old age."
"Yes, yes, jest, jeer, ridicule, you rascally doctor! You wish to excuse yourself by reviling others."
"Let us see, abbé, let us make an examination of conscience. Our professions will be inverted; I, the physician for the body, am going to ask a consultation with you, the physician for the soul."
"And you will have precious need of this consultation."
"Of what do you accuse me, abbé?"
"In the first place, you are a glutton, like Vitellius, Lucullus, the Prince of Soubise, Talleyrand, D'Aigrefeuille, Cambacérès, and Brillat-Savarin all together."
"A flatterer always! You reproach me for my only great and lofty quality."
"Ah, come now, doctor, do you take me for an oyster with your frivolous talk?"
"Take you for an oyster? How conceited you are! Unfortunately, I cannot make a comparison so advantageous to you, abbé. It would be a heresy, an anachronism. Good oysters (and others are not counted as existing) do not give the right to discuss them until about the middle of November, and we are by no means there."
"This, doctor, may be very witty, but it does not convince me in the least that gluttony is, in you or any other person, a quality."
"I will convince you of it."
"You?"
"I, my dear abbé."
"That would be rather difficult. And how?"
"Give me your evening on the twentieth of November and I will prove that—"
But interrupting himself, the doctor added:
"Come now, my dear abbé, what are you constantly looking at there by the side of that door?"
The holy man, thus taken unawares, blushed to his ears, for he had listened to the doctor with distraction, impatiently turning his eyes toward the door as if he expected a person who had not arrived; but after the first moment of surprise the abbé did not seem disconcerted, and replied:
"What door do you speak of, doctor? I do not know what you mean."
"I mean that you frequently look on this side as if you expected the appearance of some one."
"There is no one in the world, dear doctor, except you, who could have such ideas. I was entirely absorbed in your sophistical but intelligent conversation."
"Ah, abbé, abbé, you overwhelm me!"
"You wish, in a word, doctor, to prove to me that gluttony is a noble, sublime passion, do you not?"
"Sublime, abbé, that is the word, sublime,—if not in itself at least in its consequences; above all, in the interest of agriculture and commerce."
"Come, doctor, that is a paradox. Agriculture and commerce are sustained as other things are."
"It is not a paradox, it is a fact, yes, a fact, and if it is demonstrated to you positively, mathematically, practically, and economically, what can you say? Will you still doubt it?"
"I will doubt, or rather I will believe this abomination less than ever."
"How, in spite of evidence, abbé?"
"Because of evidence, if so be that this evidence can ever exist, for it is by just such means of these pretended evidences, these perfidious appearances, that the bad spirit leads us into the most dangerous snares."
"What, abbé, the devil! I am not a seminarian whom you are preparing to take the bands. You are a man of mind and of knowledge. When I talk reason to you, talk reason to me, and not of the devil and his horns."
"But, pagan, idolater that you are, do you not know that gluttony is perhaps the most abominable of the seven capital sins?"
"In the first place, abbé, I pray you do not calumninate like that the seven capital sins, but speak of them with the deference which is their due. I have found them profoundly respected in general and in particular."
"Indeed, it is not only gluttony that he glorifies,—he pushes his paradox to the glorification of the seven capital sins!"
"Yes, dear abbé, all the seven, considered from a certain point of view."
"That is monomania."
"Will you be convinced, abbé?"
"Of what?"
"Of the possible excellence,—of the conditional existence of the worldly and philosophical excellence of the seven capital sins."
"Really, doctor, do you take me for a child?"
"Give me your evening on the twentieth of November; you will be convinced."
"Come now, doctor, why always the twentieth of November?"
"That is for me a prophetic day, and more, it is the anniversary of my birth, my dear abbé, so give me your evening on that day and you will not regret having come."
"Very well, then, the twentieth of November, if my health—"
"Permits you,—well understood, my dear abbé; but my experience tells me that you will be able to drag yourself to see me on that day."
"What a man. He is capable of giving me a perfect example, in his big own damned person, of the seven capital sins."
At this moment the door opened.
It was on this door, more than once, that the glances of Abbé Ledoux had been turned with secret and growing impatience, during his conversation with the doctor.
The abbé's housekeeper, having entered the chamber, handed a letter to her master, and, exchanging with him a look of intelligence, said:
"It is very urgent, M. abbé."
"Permit me, doctor?" said the holy man, before breaking the seal of the letter he held in his hand.
"At your convenience, my dear abbé," replied the doctor, rising from his seat; "I must leave you now."
"I pray you, just a word!" cried the abbé, who seemed especially anxious that the doctor should not depart so soon. "Give me time to glance over this letter, and I am at your service."
"But, abbé, we have nothing more to say to each other. I have an urgent consultation, and the hour is—"
"I implore you, doctor," insisted the abbé, breaking the seal and running his eyes over the letter he had just received, "in the name of Heaven, give me only five minutes, not more."
Surprised at this singular persistence on the part of the abbé, the doctor hesitated to go out, when the invalid, discontinuing his reading of the letter, raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed:
"Ah, my God, my God!"
"What is the matter?"
"Ah, my poor doctor!"
"Finish what you have to say."
"Ah, doctor, it was Providence that sent you here."
"Providence!"
"Yes, because I find it in my power to render you a great service, perhaps."
The physician appeared to be a little doubtful of the good-will of Abbé Ledoux, and accepted his words not without a secret distrust.
"Let us see, my dear abbé," replied he, "what service can you render me?"
"You have sometimes spoken to me of your sister's numerous children, whom you have raised (notwithstanding your faults, wicked man) with paternal tenderness, after the early death of their parents."
"Go on, abbé," said the doctor, fixing a penetrating gaze on the saintly man, "go on."
"I was altogether ignorant that one of your nephews served in the navy, and had been made captain. His name is Horace Brémont, is it not?"
At the name of Horace, the doctor started, imperceptibly; his gaze seemed to penetrate to the depth of the abbé's heart, and he replied, coldly:
"I have a nephew who is captain in the navy and his name is Horace."
"And he is now in Paris?"
"Or elsewhere, abbé."
"For God's sake, let us talk seriously, my dear doctor, the time is precious. See here what has been written to me and you will judge of the importance of the letter.
"'M. Abbé:—I know that you are very intimate with the celebrated Doctor Gasterini; you can render him a great service. His nephew, Captain Horace, is compromised in a very disagreeable affair; although he has succeeded in hiding himself up to this time, his retreat has been discovered and perhaps, at the moment that I am writing to you, his person has been seized.'"
The abbé stopped and looked attentively at the doctor.
The doctor remained impassible.
Surprised at this indifference, the abbé said, in a pathetic tone:
"Ah, my poor doctor, what cruel suffering for you! But what has this unfortunate captain done?"
"I know nothing about it, abbé, continue."
Evidently the saintly man expected another result of the reading of his letter. However, not allowing himself to be disconcerted, he continued:
"'Perhaps at this moment his person has been seized,'" repeated he, laying stress on these words, and going on with the letter. "'But there remains one chance of saving this young man who is more thoughtless than culpable; you must, upon the reception of this letter, send some one immediately to Doctor Gasterini.'"
And, stopping again, the abbé added:
"As I told you, doctor, Providence sent you here."
"It has never done anything else for my sake," coldly replied the doctor. "Go on, abbé."
"'You must, upon the reception of this letter, send immediately to Doctor Gasterini,'" repeated the abbé, more and more surprised at the impassibility of the physician, and his indifference to the misfortune which threatened his nephew. "'The doctor must send some person in whom he has confidence, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat. Perhaps in this way he may get the start of the officers about to arrest this unfortunate young man.'
"I need not say more to you, my dear doctor," hastily added the abbé, throwing the letter on the bed. "A minute's delay may lose all. Run, quick, save this unhappy young man! What! You do not move; you do not reply! What are you thinking of, my poor doctor? Why do you look at me with such a strange expression? Did you not hear what has been written to me? And it is underlined, too. 'He must go instantly, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat.' Really, doctor, I do not understand you."
"But I understand you perfectly, my dear abbé," said the doctor, with sardonic calmness. "But, upon honour, this expedient is really not up to the height of your usual inventions; you have done better than that, abbé, much better."
"An expedient! My inventions!" replied the abbé, feigning amazement. "Come, doctor, you surely are not speaking seriously?"
"You have forgotten, dear abbé, that an old fox like me discovers a snare from afar."
"Doctor," replied the abbé, no longer able to conceal his violent anger, "you are at liberty to jest,—at liberty to let the time pass, and lose the opportunity of saving your nephew. I have warned you as a friend. Now, do as you please, I wash my hands of it."
"So then, my dear abbé, you were and you are in the plot of those sanctimonious persons who desired to make a nun of Dolores Salcedo, for the purpose of getting possession of the property she would one day inherit from her uncle, the canon?"
"Dolores Salcedo! Her uncle, the canon! Really, doctor, I do not know what you mean."
"Ah! ah! you are in that pious plot! It is well to know it; it is always useful to recognise your adversaries, above all, when they are as clever as you are, dear abbé."
"But, hear me, doctor, I swear to you—"
"Stop, abbé, let us play an open game. You sent for me this morning, that the pathetic epistle you have just read to me might arrive in my presence."
"Doctor!" cried the abbé, "that is carrying distrust, suspicion, to a point which becomes—which becomes—permit me to say it to you—"
"Oh, by all means,—I permit you."
"Well, which becomes outrageous in the last degree, doctor. Ah, truly," added the abbé, with bitterness, "I was far from expecting that my eagernessto do you a kindness would be rewarded in such a manner."
"Zounds! I know very well, my poor abbé, that you hoped your ingenious stratagem would have an entirely different result."
"Doctor, this is too much!"
"No, abbé, it is not enough. Now, listen to me. This is what you hoped, I say, from your ingenious stratagem: Frightened by the danger to which my nephew was exposed, I would thank you effusively for the means you offered me to save him, and would fly like an arrow to warn this poor fellow to leave his place of concealment."
"So, in fact, any other person in your place, doctor, would have done, but you take care not to act so reasonably. Surely, to speak the truth, you must be struck with frenzy and blindness."
"Alas! abbé, it is the beginning of the punishment for my sins. But let us return to the consequences of your ingenious stratagem. According to your hope, then, I would fly like an arrow to save, as you advise, my nephew. My carriage is below. I would get in it, and have myself conveyed as rapidly as possible to the mysterious retreat of Captain Horace."
"Eh, without doubt, doctor, that is what you should have done some time ago."
"Now, do you know what would have happened, my poor abbé?"
"You would have saved your nephew."
"I would have lost him, I would have betrayed him, I would have delivered him to his enemies,—and see how. I wager that at this very hour, while I am talking to you, there is, not far from here in the street, and even in sight of this house, a cab, to which a strong horse is hitched, and by a strange chance (unless you countermand your order) this cab would follow my carriage wherever it might go."
The abbé turned scarlet, but replied:
"I do not know what cab you are speaking of, doctor."
"In other words, my dear abbé, you have been seeking traces of my nephew in vain. In order to discover his retreat, you have had me followed in vain. Now, you hoped, by the sudden announcement of the danger he was running, to push me to the extremity of warning the captain. Your emissary below would have followed my carriage, so that, without knowing it, I, myself, would have disclosed the secret of my nephew's hiding-place. Again, abbé, for any other than yourself, the invention was not a bad one, but you have accustomed your admirers—and permit me to include myself among them—to higher and bolder conceptions. Let us hope, then, that another time you will show yourself more worthy of yourself. Good-bye, and without bearing you any grudge, my dear abbé, I count on you for our pleasant evening the twentieth of November. Otherwise, I will come to remind you of your promise. Good-bye, again, my poor, dear abbé. Come, do not look so vexed,—so out of countenance; console yourself for this little defeat by recalling your past triumphs."
And with this derisive conclusion to his remarks, Doctor Gasterini left Abbé Ledoux.
"You sing victory, old serpent!" cried the abbé, purple with anger and shaking his fist at the door by which the doctor went out. "You are very arrogant, but you do not know that this morning even we have recaptured Dolores Salcedo, and your miserable nephew shall not escape us, for I am as cunning as you are, infernal doctor, and, as you say, I have more than one trick in my bag."
The doctor, the subject of this imprecatory monologue, had concealed the disquietude he felt by the discovery he had just made. He knew Abbé Ledoux capable of taking a brilliant revenge, so as he descended the steps of the saintly man's house, the doctor, before enteringhis carriage, looked cautiously on both sides of the street. As he expected, he saw a public cab about twenty steps from where he was standing. In this cab was a large man, wearing a brown overcoat. Walking up to the cab, the doctor, with a confidential air, said in a low voice to the large man:
"My friend, you are posted there, are you not, to follow this open carriage with two horses, standing before the door, Number 17?"
"Sir," said the man, hesitating, "I do not know who you are, or why you—"
"Hush! my friend," replied the doctor, in a tone full of mystery, "I have just left Abbé Ledoux; the order of proceeding is changed; the abbé expects you at once, to give you new orders,—quick, go, go!"
The fat man, reassured by the explicit directions given by the doctor, hesitated no longer, descended from his cab, and went in haste to see the Abbé Ledoux. When the doctor saw the door close upon the emissary of the abbé, feeling certain that he was not followed, he ordered his coachman to drive in haste to the Faubourg Poissonnière, for if he feared nothing for his nephew, he had reason enough for uneasiness since he had learned that Abbé Ledoux was concerned in this intrigue.
The doctor's carriage had just entered one of the less frequented streets of the Faubourg Poissonnière, not far from the gate of the same name, when he perceived at a short distance quite a large assemblage in front of a modest-looking house. The doctor ordered his carriage to stop, descended from it, mingled with the crowd, and said to one of the men:
"What is the matter there, sir?"
"It seems, sir, they are taking back a stray dove to the dove-cote."
"A dove!"
"Yes, or if you like it better, a young girl who escaped from a convent. The commissary of policearrived with his deputies, and a very fat man in a blue overcoat, who looked like a priest. He had the house opened. The fugitive was found there, and put into a carriage with the fat man in a blue overcoat. I have never seen any citizen ornamented with such a stomach."
Doctor Gasterini did not wait to hear more, but rushed through the crowd and imperatively rang the bell at the door of the little house of which we have spoken. A young servant, still pale with emotion, came to open it.
"Where is Madame Dupont?" asked the physician, impatiently.
"She is at home, sir. Oh, sir, if you only knew!"
The doctor made no reply; went through two apartments, and entered a bedchamber, where he found an aged woman, with a venerable-looking face full of sweetness.
"Ah, doctor, doctor!" cried Madame Dupont, bursting into tears, "what a misfortune, what a scandal, poor young girl!"
"I am grieved, my poor Madame Dupont, that the service you rendered me should have been followed by such disagreeable consequences."
"Oh, do not think it is that which afflicts, doctor. I owe you more than my life, since I owe you the life of my son; I do not think of complaining of a transient vexation, and I know you too well, in other things, to raise the least doubt as to the intentions which led you to ask me to give a temporary asylum to this young girl."
"By this time, my dear Madame Dupont, I can and I ought to tell you all. Here is the whole story in two words: I have a nephew, an indiscreet boy, but the bravest fellow in the world; he is captain in the marine service. In his last voyage from Cadiz to Bordeaux he took as passengers a Spanish canon and his niece. My nephew fell desperately in love with the niece, but by a series of events too long and too ridiculous to relate toyou, the canon took the greatest aversion to my nephew, and informed him that he should never marry Dolores. The opposition exasperated the lovers; my devil of a nephew followed the canon to Paris, discovered the convent where the uncle had placed the young girl, put himself in correspondence with her, and eloped with her. Horace—that is his name—is an honest fellow, and, the elopement accomplished, he introduced Dolores to me and confessed all to me. While the marriage was pending, he besought me to place this young girl in a suitable house, since, for a thousand reasons, it was impossible for me to keep the child in my house after such an uproar. Then I thought of you, my good Madame Dupont."
"Ah, sir, I was certain that you acted nobly in that as you have always, and, besides, the short time that she was here Mlle. Dolores interested me exceedingly,—indeed I was already attached to her, and you can judge of my distress this morning when—"
"The commissary of police ordered the house to be opened; I know it. And the canon, Dom Diégo, accompanied him."
"Yes, sir, he was furious; he declared that he was acquainted with the French law; that it would not permit such things; that it was abduction of a minor, and that they were searching on all sides for your nephew."
"That is what I expected, and I exacted from my nephew, not only that he would not see Dolores again until all was arranged, but that he would keep himself concealed in order to escape the pursuit which I hoped to quiet. Now I do not know if I can succeed; the situation is grave. I have told Horace so, but the deed was done, and I confess I revolted against the thought of placing this poor Dolores myself in the hands of the canon, a kind of gluttonous, superstitious brute, from whom there is nothing to hope."
"Ah, doctor, I am now well enough acquainted withMlle. Dolores to be sure that she will die of grief if she is left in that convent, and believe me, sir, in the scene of this morning, that which most distresses me is not the scandal of which my poor house has been the theatre, but the thought of the sad future which is perhaps reserved for that unhappy child. And now that I know all, doctor, I am all the more troubled in thinking of the grave consequences that this abduction may entail upon your nephew."
"I share your fears most keenly, my dear Madame Dupont. After a discovery that I have this morning made, I am afraid that a complaint has already been instituted against Horace; if it has not been it will be, to-day perhaps, for now that Dolores is again in the power of her uncle, if he can have my nephew arrested he will have nothing to fear from his love for Dolores. Ah, this arrest would be dreadful! Law is inflexible. My nephew went by night to a convent and abducted a minor. It is liable to infamous punishment, and for him that would be worse than death!"
"Great God!"
"And his brothers and sisters who love him so much! What sorrow for me,—for our family!" added the old man, with sadness.
"But, sir, there ought to be something we can do to put a stop to this pursuit."
"Ah, madame, dear Madame Dupont," replied the doctor, overcome with emotion, "I lose my head when I think of the terrible consequences which may result from this foolish adventure of a young man."
"But what shall we do, doctor, what shall we do?"
"Ah, do I know myself what to do, my poor Madame Dupont? I am going to reflect on the best course to pursue, but I am dealing with such a powerful adversary that I dare not hope for success." And Doctor Gasterini left the Faubourg Poissonnière in a state of inexpressible anxiety.
The day after Dolores Salcedo had been taken back to the convent, the following scene took place in the home of the canon, Dom Diégo, who lodged in a comfortable apartment engaged for him before his arrival by Abbé Ledoux.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning.
Dom Diégo, reclining in a large armchair, seemed to be assailed by gloomy thoughts. He was a large man of fifty years, and of enormous obesity; his fat, bloated cheeks mingled with his quadruple chin, his dingy skin was rough and flabby, and revealed the weakness of the inert mass. His features were not wanting in a kind of good-humour, when they were not under the domination of some disagreeable idea. His large mouth and thick, hanging under-lip denoted sensuality. With half-closed eyes under his heavy gray eyebrows, and hands crossed upon his Falstaff stomach, whose vast rotundity was outlined beneath a violet-coloured morning-gown, the canon sighed from time to time in a mournful and despondent tone.
"More appetite, alas! more appetite!" murmured he. "Too many tossings of the sea have upset me. My stomach, so stout, so regular in its habits, is distracted like a watch out of order. This morning, at breakfast, ordinarily my most enjoyable meal, I have hardly eaten at all. Everything seemed insipid or bitter. What will it be at dinner, oh, what will it be at dinner, a repast which I make almost always without hunger in order to take and taste the delicate flower of the best things?Ah, may that infernal Captain Horace be cursed and damned! The horrible regimen to which I was subjected during that long voyage cost me my appetite; my stomach was irritated and revolted against those execrable salt meats and abominable dry vegetables. So, since this injury done to the delicacy of its habits, my stomach pouts and treats me badly, as if it were my fault, alas! It has a grudge against me, it punishes me, it looks big before the best dishes!
"But who knows if the hand of Providence is not there? Now that I do not feel the least hunger I realise that I have abandoned myself to a sin as detestable as—delectable. Alas! gluttony! Perhaps Providence meant to punish me by sending this miserable Captain Horace on my route. Ah, the scoundrel, what evil has he done! And this was not enough; he abducted my niece, he plunged me in new tribulations; he upset my life, my repose. I, who only asked to eat with meditation and tranquillity! Oh, this brigand captain! I will have my revenge. But whatever may be my revenge, double traitor, I cannot return to you the twentieth part of the evil that I owe you. Because here are two months that I have lost my appetite, and if I should live one hundred years, I should never catch up with those two months of enforced abstinence!"
This dolorous monologue was interrupted by the entrance of the canon's majordomo, an old servant with gray hair.
"Well, Pablo," said Dom Diégo to him, "you come from the convent?"
"Yes, sir."
"And my unworthy niece?"
"Sir, she is in a sort of delirium, she has a hot fever; sometimes she calls for Captain Horace with heartrending cries, sometimes she invokes death, weeping and sobbing. I assure you, sir, it is enough to break your heart."
Dom Diégo, in spite of his selfish sensuality, seemed at first touched by the majordomo's words, but soon he cried:
"So much the better! Dolores only has what she deserves. This will teach her to fall in love with the most detestable of men. She will remain in the convent, she shall take the veil there. My excellent friend and companion, Abbé Ledoux, is perfectly right; by this sample of my niece's tricks I shall know what to expect, if I keep her near me,—perpetual alarms and insults until I had her married, well or ill. Now to cut short all this the Senora Dolores will take the veil, and accomplish her salvation; my wealth will some day enrich the house, where they will pray for the repose of my soul, and I will be relieved of this she-devil of a niece,—three benefits for one."
"But, my lord, if the condition of the senora requires—"
"Not a word more, Pablo!" cried the canon, fearing he might be moved to pity in spite of himself. "Not a word more. Have I not, alas! enough personal troubles without your coming to torture me, to irritate me, with contradictions?"
"Pardon, sir, then, I wish to speak to you of another thing."
"Of what?"
"There is a man in the antechamber who desires to speak with you."
"Who is this man?"
"An old man, well dressed."
"And what does this man want?"
"To talk with you, sir, upon a very important affair. He has brought with him a large box that a porter has just delivered. It seems very heavy."
"And what is this box, Pablo?"
"I do not know, sir."
"And the name of this man?"
"Oh, a very strange name."
"What?"
"Appetite, sir."
"What! this man's name is Appetite?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must have misunderstood him."
"No, sir, I made him repeat his name twice. It is certainly Appetite."
"Alas, alas! what a cruelly ironical name!" murmured the canon, with bitterness. "But no matter, for the rarity of the name, send this man in to me."
An instant after the man announced by the majordomo entered, respectfully saluted Dom Diégo, and said to him:
"It is Lord Dom Diégo whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"Yes, what do you wish of me?"
"First, sir, to pay you the tribute of my profound admiration; then, to offer you my services."
"But, monsieur, what is your name?"
"Appetite, sir."
"Do you write your name as appetite, the desire for food, is written?"
"Yes, sir, but I confess that it is not my name, but my surname."
"To deserve such a surname you ought to be eminently well endowed by nature, M. Appetite; you ought to enjoy an eternal hunger," said the canon, with a sigh of regretful envy.
"On the contrary, I eat very little, sir, as almost all those who have the sacred mission of making others eat."
"How? What, then, is your profession?"
"Cook, sir, and would like the honour of serving you, if I can merit that felicity."
The canon shook his head sadly, and hid his face in his hands; he felt all his griefs revive at the proposition of M. Appetite, who went on to say:
"My second master, Lord Wilmot, whose stomach was so debilitated that for almost a year he ate without pleasure, and even without knowing the taste of different dishes, literally devoured food the first day I had the honour of serving him. It was he who, through gratitude, gave me the name of Appetite, which I have kept ever since."
The canon looked at his visitor attentively, and replied:
"Ah, you are a cook? But tell me, you have spoken to me of paying me the tribute of your admiration and of offering me your services, where were you acquainted with me?"
"You have, sir, during your sojourn in Madrid, often dined with the ambassador of France."
"Oh, yes, that was my good time," replied Dom Diégo, with sadness. "I rendered ample justice to the table of the ambassador of France, and I have proclaimed the fact that I knew of no better practitioner than his chef."
"And this illustrious practitioner, with whom, my lord, I am in correspondence, that we may mutually keep pace with the progress of the science, has written to me to express his joy at having been so worthily appreciated by a connoisseur like yourself. I had taken note of your name, and yesterday, learning by chance that you were in search of a cook, I come to have the honour of offering you my services."
"And from whom do you come, my friend?"
"For ten years, my lord, I have worked only for myself, that is to say, for art. I have a modest fortune, but enough, so it is not a mercenary motive which brings me to you, sir."
"But why do you offer your services to me, rather than to some one else?"
"Because, being free to choose, I consult my convenience; because I am very jealous, my lord, horribly jealous."
"Jealous; and of what?"
"Of my master's fidelity."
"What, the fidelity of your master?"
"Yes, my lord; and I am sure you will be faithful, because you live alone, without family, and, by condition as well as character, you have not, like so many others, all sorts of inclinations which always bore or annoy one; as a serious and convinced man, you have only one passion, but profound, absolute, and that is gluttony. Well, this passion, I offer, my lord, to satisfy, as you have never been satisfied in your life."
"You talk of gold, my dear friend, but do you know that, to make good your claims, in the use of such extravagant language, you must have great talent,—prodigious talent?"
"This great, this prodigious talent I have, my lord."
"Your avowal is not modest."
"It is sincere, and you know, sir, that one may employ a legitimate assurance, from the consciousness of his power."
"I like this noble pride, my dear friend, and if your acts respond to your words, you are a superior person."
"Sir, put me to trial to-day, this hour."
"To-day, this hour!" cried the canon, shrugging his shoulders. "You do not know, then, that for two accursed months I have been in this deplorable state; that there is nothing I can taste; that this morning I have left untouched a breakfast ordered from Chevet, who supplies me until my kitchen is well appointed. Ah, if you did not have the appearance of an honest man, I would think you came to insult my misery,—proposing to cook for me when I am never the least hungry."
"Sir, my name is Appetite."
"But I repeat to you, my dear friend, that only an hour ago I refused the choicest things."
"So much the better, my lord, I could not present myselfto you at a more favourable juncture; my triumph will be great."
"Listen, my dear friend, I cannot tell you if it is the influence of your name, or the learned and exalted manner with which you speak of your art, which gives me confidence in you, in spite of myself; but I experience, I will not say, a desire to eat, because I would challenge you to make me swallow the wing of an ortolan; but indeed I experience, in hearing you reason upon cooking, a pleasure which makes me hope that perhaps, later, if appetite returns to me, I—"
"My lord, pardon me if I interrupt you; you have a kitchen here?"
"Certainly, with every appointment. A fire has just been kindled there to keep warm what was brought already prepared from Chevet, but, alas! utterly useless."
"Will you give me, sir, a half-hour?"
"What to do?"
"To prepare a breakfast for you, sir."
"With what?"
"I have brought all that is necessary."
"But what is the good of this breakfast, my dear friend? Go, believe me, and do not compromise a talent in which I am pleased to believe, by engaging in a foolish, impossible undertaking."
"Sir, will you give me a half-hour?"
"But I ask again, for what good?"
"To make you eat an excellent breakfast, sir, which will predispose you for a still better dinner."
"That is folly, I tell you; you are mad."
"Try, my lord; what do you risk?"
"Go on, then, you must be a magician."
"I am, sir, perhaps," replied the cook, with a strange smile.
"Very well, bear then the penalty of your own pride," cried Dom Diégo, ringing violently. "If you are instantly overwhelmed with humiliation, and arecompelled to confess the impotence of your art, it is you who would have it. Take care, take care."
"You will eat, my lord," replied the artist, in a professional tone; "yes, you will eat, and much, and deliciously."
At the moment the cook pronounced these rash words the majordomo, called by the sound of the bell, entered.
"Pablo," said the canon, "open the kitchen to this man, and lay a cover for me. Justice must be done."
"But, sir, this morning—"
"Do as I tell you, conduct M. Appetite to the kitchen, and if he has need of help, let some one help him."
"I have need of no one, sir, I am accustomed to work alone in my laboratory. I ask of you permission to shut myself in."
"Have all that you wish, my dear friend, but may I be for ever damned for my sins if I swallow a mouthful of what you are going to serve me. I understand myself, I think, and there is really an overweening pride in you—"
"It is half-past eleven, my lord," said the cook, interrupting Dom Diégo, with majesty; "when the clock strikes noon you will breakfast."
And the artist went out, accompanied by the majordomo.
After the disappearance of M. Appetite, this strange cook who offered his services with such superb assurance, the canon, left alone, said to himself, as he rose painfully from his chair and walked to and fro with agitation:
"The arrogant self-confidence of this cook confounds me and impresses me in spite of myself. But if he thinks he is dealing with a novice in the knowledge of dainty dishes, he has made a mistake, and I will make him see it. Well, what a fool I am to be so much disturbed! Can any human power give me in five minutes the hunger that has failed me for two months? Ah, that accursed Captain Horace! What a pleasure it would be to me to put him under lock and key! To think that the only nourishment he would have would be the nauseous diet given to prisoners, watered by a glass of blue wine, as rough to the throat as a rasp, and as sour as spoiled vinegar. But bah! This scoundrel, accustomed, doubtless, to the frequent privations endured by mariners, is capable of being indifferent to such a martyrdom, and of preserving his insolent appetite, while I—Ah, if this cook has not told me a lie! But, no, no, like all the French he is braggart, he is full of pride! And yet his assurance seems to me conscientious. He has something, too, in his look, in his countenance, expressive of power. But, in fact, what is this man? Where does he come from? Can I trust myself to his sincerity? I recall now that, when I spoke to him of the impossibility of reviving my appetite, he replied, witha significant bow: 'My lord, perhaps I am a magician.' If there are magicians they are the sons of the evil spirit, and God keep me from ever meeting them! This man must be a real magician if he makes me eat. Alas, I am a great sinner! Satan takes all sorts of forms, and if—Oh, no, no, I shudder at the very thought! I must turn away from such doleful meditations!"
Then, after a moment's silence, the canon added, as he looked at his watch:
"See, it will soon be noon. In spite of myself, the nearer the fatal hour comes, the more my anxiety increases. I feel a strange emotion, I can admit it to myself. I am almost afraid. It seems to me that this man at this very hour is surrendering himself to a mysterious incantation, that he is plotting something superhuman, because to resurrect the dead and resurrect my appetite would be to work the same miracle. And this wonderful man has undertaken to work this miracle. And if he does, must I not recognise his supernatural power? Come, come, I am ashamed of this weakness. Well, I am indifferent, I prefer not to be alone, because the nearer the hour the more uncomfortable I am. I must ring for Pablo. (He rings.) Yes, the silence of this dwelling, the thought that this strange man is there in that subterranean kitchen, bending over his blazing furnace, like some bad spirit occupied with his sorcery,—all that gives me a strange sensation. Ah, so Pablo does not hear!" cried the canon, now at the highest pitch of uneasiness.
And he rang the bell again, violently.
Pablo did not appear.
"What does that mean?" murmured Dom Diégo, looking around him in dismay. "Pablo does not come! What a frightful and gloomy silence! Oh, something wonderful is happening! I dare not take a step."
Turning his ear to listen, the canon added:
"What is that hollow sound? Nothing human. Some one is coming. Ah, I have not a drop of blood in my veins!"
At this moment the door opened so violently that the canon screamed and hid his face in his hands, as he gasped the words:
"Vade—retro—Satanas!"
It was not Satan by any means, but Pablo, the majordomo, who, not having answered the two calls of the bell, was running precipitately, and thus produced the noise that the superstitious imagination of the canon transformed into something mysterious and supernatural.
The majordomo, struck with the attitude of the canon, approached him, and said:
"Ah, my God, what is the matter with you, my lord?"
At the voice of Pablo, Dom Diégo dropped his fat hands, which covered his face, and his servant saw the terror depicted in the master's countenance.
"My lord, my lord, what has happened?"
"Nothing, poor Pablo,—a foolish idea, which I am ashamed of now. But why are you so late?"
"Sir, it is not my fault."
"How is that?"
"I wished, sir, from curiosity, to enter this kitchen to see the work of this famous cook."
"Very well, Pablo?"
"After I assisted him in carrying his box, this strange man ordered me out of the kitchen, where he wished, he said, to be absolutely alone."
"Ah, Pablo, how he surrounds himself with mystery!"
"I obeyed, my lord, but I could not resist the temptation to stay outside at the door."
"To listen?"
"No, sir, to scent."
"Well, Pablo?"
"Ah, my lord, my lord!"
"What is it, Pablo?"
"Little by little an odour passed through the door, so delicious, so exquisite, so tempting, so exciting, that it was impossible for me to go away. If I had been nailed to the door I could not have been more immovable. I was bewildered, fascinated, entranced!"
"Truly, Pablo?"
"You know, my lord, that you gave me the excellent breakfast they brought to you this morning."
"Alas! yes."
"That breakfast I have eaten, my lord."
"Happy Pablo!"
"Well, sir, this odour of which I tell you was so appetising that I felt myself seized with a furious hunger, and, without leaving the door, I took from one of the shelves of the pantry a large piece of dry bread."
"And you ate it, Pablo?"
"I devoured it, my lord."
"Dry?"
"Dry," replied the majordomo, bowing his head.
"Dry!" cried the canon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven. "It is a miracle! He breakfasted an hour ago like an ogre, and now he has just bolted a piece of dry bread!"
"Yes, my lord, this dry bread, seasoned with that juicy odour, seemed to me the most delicious of morsels."
At this moment the clock struck noon.
"Noon!" cried the majordomo. "This marvellous cook instructed me to serve you, my lord, at noon precisely. The cover is already laid on the little table. I am going to bring it."
"Go, Pablo," said the canon, with a meditative air. "My destiny is about to be accomplished. The miracle, if it is a miracle, is going to be performed,—if it is to be performed; for I swear, in spite of all you have just told me, I have not the least appetite. I have a heavystomach and a clammy mouth. Go, Pablo, I am waiting."
There was a resignation full of doubt, of curiosity, of anguish, and of vague hope, in the accent with which Dom Diégo uttered the words, "I am waiting."
Soon the majordomo reappeared.
He walked with a solemn air, bearing on a tray a little chafing-dish of silver, the size of a plate, surmounted with its stew-pan. On the side of the tray was a small crystal flagon, filled with a limpid liquid, the colour of burnt topaz.
Pablo, as he approached, several times held his nose to the edge of the stew-pan to inhale the appetising exhalations which escaped from it; finally, he placed on the table the little chafing-dish, the flagon, and a small card.
"Pablo," asked the canon, pointing to the chafing-dish, surmounted with its pan, "what is that silver plate?"
"It belongs to M. Appetite, sir; under this pan is a dish with a double bottom, filled with boiling water, because this great man says the food must be eaten burning hot."
"And that flagon, Pablo?"
"Its use is marked on the card, sir, which informs you of all the dishes you are going to eat."
"Let me see this card," said the canon, and he read:
"'Guinea fowl eggs fried in the fat of quails, relieved with a gravy of crabs.
"'N. B. Eat burning hot, make only one mouthful of each egg, after having softened it well with the gravy.
"'Masticatepianissimo.
"'Drink after each egg two fingers of Madeira wine of 1807, which has made five voyages from Rio Janeiro to Calcutta. (It is needless to say that certain wines are vastly improved by long voyages.)
"'Drink this wine with meditation.
"'It is impossible for me not to take the liberty to accompany each dish which I have the honour of serving Lord Dom Diégo with a flagon of wine appropriate to the particular character of the aforesaid dish.'"
"What a man!" exclaimed the majordomo, with an expression of profound admiration, "he thinks of everything!"
The canon, whose agitation was increasing, lifted the top of the silver dish with a trembling hand.
Suddenly a delicious odour spread itself through the atmosphere. Pablo clasped his hands, dilating his wide nostrils and looking at the dish with a greedy eye.
In the middle of the silver dish, half steeped in an unctuous, velvety gravy of a beautiful rosy hue, the majordomo saw four little round soft eggs, that seemed still to tremble with their smoking, golden frying.
The canon, struck like his majordomo with the delicious fragrance of the dish, literally ate it with his eyes, and for the first time in two months a sudden desire of appetite tickled his palate. Nevertheless, he still doubted, believing in the deceitful illusion of a false hunger. Taking in a spoon one of the little eggs, well impregnated with gravy, he shovelled it into his large mouth.
"Masticatepianissimo, my lord!" cried Pablo, who followed every motion of his master with a beating heart. "Masticate slowly, the magician said, and afterward drink this, according to the directions."
And Pablo poured out two fingers of the Madeira wine of 1807, in a glass as thin as the peel of an onion, and presented it to Dom Diégo.
Oh, wonder! Oh, marvel! Oh, miracle! The second movement of the masticationpianissimowas hardly accomplished when the canon threw his head gently back, and, half shutting his eyes in a sort of ecstasy, crossed his two hands on his breast, still holding in one hand the spoon with which he had just served himself.
"Well, my lord?" said Pablo, with keen interest, as he presented the two fingers of Madeira wine, "well?"
The canon did not reply, but took the glass eagerly and carried it to his lips.
"Above all, sir, drink with meditation," cried Pablo, a scrupulous observer of the cook's order.
The canon drank, indeed, with meditation, then clapped his tongue against his palate, and, if that can be said, listened an instant to relish the flower of the wine which mingled so marvellously with the after-taste of the dish he had just tasted; then, without replying to the interrogations of Pablo, he atepianissimothe three last Guinea fowl eggs, with a pensive and increasing delectation, emptied the little flagon of Madeira wine, and,—must we confess the dreadful impropriety?—he actually dipped his bread so scrupulously into every drop of the crab gravy in which the eggs were served that the bottom of the silver dish soon shone with an immaculate lustre.
Then addressing his majordomo for the first time, Dom Diégo exclaimed, in a tender voice, while tears glittered in his eyes:
"Ah, Pablo!"
"What is the matter, my lord? This emotion—"
"Pablo, I do not know who it is has said that great joys have something melancholy in them; whoever did say it has not made a mistake, because, from the infirmity of our nature, we often sink under the weight of the greatest felicities. Now, for the first time in two months, I can really say I eat, and I eat as I have never eaten in my life. No, no, human language, you must see, my dear Pablo, cannot express the luxury, the exquisite delicacy of this dish, so simple in appearance, Guinea fowl eggs fried in the fat of quail, watered with gravy of crabs. No, for you see, in proportion as I relish them I felt my appetite renew itself, and at present I am much more hungry than before I ate. And this wine, Pablo, this wine, how it melts in the mouth, hey?"
"Alas! my lord," said the majordomo, with a woeful face, "I do not know even the taste of this wine, but I am glad to believe you."
"Oh, yes, believe me, my poor Pablo; it is dry and velvety at the same time,—what shall I say? a nectar! and if you only knew, Pablo, how admirably the flavour of this nectar mingles with the perfume of the crab gravy! It is ideal, Pablo, ideal, I tell you, and I ought to be radiant, crazy with joy in the recovery of my lost appetite,—well, no, I feel myself overcome with an inexpressible tenderness; in fact, I weep like a child! Pablo, do you see it? I am weeping, I am hungry!"
A bell sounded.
"What is that, Pablo?"
"It is he, my lord."
"Who?"
"The great man! he is ringing for us."
"He?"
"Yes, my lord," replied Pablo, removing the dish. "He declares that those who eat should be at the call of those who prepare their food, for only the latter know the hour, the minute, the instant each dish ought to be served and tasted so as not to lose one atom of its worth."
"What he has said is very deep! He is right. Run, then, Pablo. My God! he is ringing again! I hope he has not taken offence. Go quick, quick!"
The majordomo ran, and, let us confess the impropriety, the poor creature, instigated by a consuming curiosity, dared to lick the dish he carried with desperate greediness, although the canon had left it absolutely clean. The ever increasing impatience with which the canon looked for the different dishes, always unknown to him beforehand, can be imagined.
Each service was accompanied with an "order," as Pablo called it, and a new flagon of wine, drawn, no doubt, from the cellar of this wonderful cook.
A collection of these culinary bulletins will give an idea of the varied delights enjoyed by Dom Diégo.
After the note which announced the Guinea fowl eggs, the following menu was served, in the order in which we present it:
"Trout from the lake of Geneva with Montpellier butter, preserved in ice.
"Envelope each mouthful of this exquisite fish, hermetically, in a layer of this highly spiced seasoning.
"Masticateallegro.
"Drink two glasses of this Bordeaux wine, Sauterne of 1834, which has made the voyage from the Indies three times.
"This wine should bemeditated."
"A painter or a poet would have made an enchanting picture of this trout with Montpellier butter preserved in ice," said the canon to Pablo. "See there, this charming little trout, with flesh the colour of a rose, and a head like mother-of-pearl, voluptuously lying on this bed of shining green, composed of fresh butter and virgin oil congealed by ice, to which tarragon, chive, parsley, and water-cresses have given this bright emerald colour! And what perfume! How the freshness of this seasoning contrasts with the pungency of the spices which relieve it! How delicious! And this wine of Sauterne! As the great man of the kitchen says, how admirably this ambrosia is suited to the character of this divine trout which gives me a growing appetite!"