I have said that it is not on memory’s record that the whilom schoolboy, now in his mediæval student mood, failed to rise at the appointed clock crow. Of a truth he rarely had less than his eight hours good sleep, glad enough as he was to retire to rest at nine—“curfew time.” But it must be admitted that on one occasion or two he succumbed to the weakness of compounding with his studious resolutions. The French equivalent of playing truant is faire l’école buissonière—a taking term, redolent of the allurement of hedgerows and free green fields. And it is the memory of one of these écoles buissonières—or rather, in this case, écoles riveraines—that, through the usual devious paths, brings me back to the forgotten question of soupe à l’oignon.
It must have been a very early day in May, for at a quarter before five, when the imperative rattle was sprung, sun-rays were just beginning to dart between the curtains. The birds in the Champs Elysées kept up their concert through the morning silence of the gardens with more persistent enthusiasm than usual. And on looking out of window, under such a pure sky, the out-of-door world looked quite extraordinarily inviting. It would have been folly to decline such an invitation!
The “Short History,” opened at a chapter of the Hundred Years War, was left for the nonce undisturbed: the scholar sallied forth to roam under the tall trees of the Cours la Reine, intent, no doubt, on returning after a short stroll. But there is in the early morning hours, especially on such a morning, the spell of the “invitation to the road.” The river-side, so fresh and green, and the unending line of giant plane trees on the quays, as he swung along to meet the sun, still low behind the Isle of Notre Dame, drew him on and on. He decided only to return for breakfast and Gilchrist. Then he bethought himself there would be time to stroll through those populous quarters which, unlike the residential districts, were still in many ways the Paris of the Middle Ages. That was the Paris which held for him then so potent an interest—the Paris within the walls of Charles VI; the town of Armagnacs and Burgundians, which had been governed by Bedford for his infant English King; the crowded space, in short, between the old Louvres and the new Bastille, which had been kept in order by the tramping of English men-at-arms. One inquisitive excursion led to another—nearly two hours had been spent in delightful ferreting; there was no time to return home for breakfast before the Gilchrist-ward ascent. Meanwhile a positively wolfish hunger had begun to assert itself. The scholar “searched his pouch.” This was quite in mediæval style; and what was decidedly in the same style was the discovery of but two poor deniers for all asset! His usual pocket-money allowance was then reposing on the bed-side table, far away, save for these two pennies luckily forgotten in a waistcoat pocket.
This discovery was made, ruefully enough, as he was looking about in the vicinity of Saint Eustache for some respectable restaurateur wherein to obtain the matutinal coffee. But two deniers—twopence, vingt centimes—would never purchase breakfast at any table under a roof. What the devil...! Well, twopence in this workmen’s district would buy bread enough, anyhow, to appease the sharpest-set morning appetite. Saint Eustache, as every one knows, is close to the Halles Centrales, the great food emporium of Paris—a kind of combined Smithfield, Billingsgate, Covent Garden, and Leadenhall Market. The now frantic owner of the two pence was darting about the galleries in search of the first bread-stall, when he was arrested by a floating savour, truly ambrosial. As he stopped and involuntarily, if quite obviously, sniffed, a tempting voice rose beside him, engagingly familiar: “Oui, elle est bonne, ce matin. Tu en veux, beau garçon?” And so saying, a fat smiling dame de la Halle, with an alert eye to business, plunged a ladle into a deep iron marmite and filled a generous-sized white bowl, something a trifle under a pint in capacity, with a steaming brown pottage, that in the circumstances was positively irresistible: “Combien, la mère?” asked the truant scholar, falling into the speech suitable to the place, and fingering the two modest coins with doubt and anxiety, even as might a ravening Villon, a destitute Gringoire.
“Combien, mon p’tit gros? Mais un sou, toujours!—Et au fromage,” changing her tone to mock deference as one addressing a client of importance, “au fromage, dix centimes, mon prince!—Mais, bernique! n’y en a plus!”—she added, laughing complacently and tossing her head in the direction of a second cauldron that lay empty on her left.
The more luxurious cheese pottage being “off,” and time of importance ‹it would, volunteered the culinary Madame Angot, take ten minutes to prepare the next potful› the famished wanderer proffered his penny and received his grateful bowl together with some eight inches of “long bread” in lieu of his half-denier change. And, leaning against a pillar, he set himself to the enjoyment of what, as I have remarked before, was the best breakfast of his life.
SAVOURY POTTAGE
Hunger is the finest of all possible sauces—a truism even more than a proverb. The snatched crust, the draught of clear water in the palm of the hand, at some dire moment of want, is more welcome than the most cunning dish, the rarest cup in the easy tenor of life. But the plain bread and the clear water, however eagerly seized, must ever savour of hardship. Now this halfpenny worth of soupe à l’oignon bore none of that character, for all that, as far as nutriment went, it consisted of naught but bread and water. It had all the attributes of a civilized meal: it was hot, savoury, immediately comforting.