“Why can he not mind his own business? Do I go pushing my nose into his department? To begin with, the thing concerns Bompain, not him. And then, after all, what is it that I am charged with? The butcher sends me five baskets of meat every morning. I use only two of them and sell the three others back to him. Where is the chef who does not do the same? As if, instead of coming to play the spy in my basement, he would not do better to look after the great leakage up there. When I think that in three months that gang on the first floor has smoked twenty-eight thousand francs’ worth of cigars. Twenty-eight thousand francs! Ask Noel if I am not speaking the truth. And on the second floor, in the apartments of madame, that is where you should look to see a fine confusion of linen, of dresses thrown aside after being worn once, jewels by the handful, pearls that you crush on the floor as you walk. Oh, but wait a little. I shall get my own back from that same little gentleman.”
I understood that the allusion was to M. de Gery, that young secretary of the Nabob who often comes to the Territorial, where he is always occupied rummaging into the books. Very polite, certainly, but a very haughty young man, who does not know how to push himself forward. From all round the table there came nothing but a concert of maledictions on him. M. Louis himself addressed some remarks to the company upon the subject with his grand air:
“In our establishment, my dear M. Barreau, the cook quite recently had an affair, similar to yours, with the chief of his excellency’s Cabinet, who had permitted himself to make some comments upon the expenditure. The cook went up to the duke’s apartments upon the instant in his professional costume, and with his hand on the strings of his apron, said, ‘Let your excellency choose between monsieur and myself.’ The duke did not hesitate. One can find as many Cabinet leaders as one desires, while the good cooks, you can count them. There are in Paris four altogether. I include you, my dear Barreau. We dismissed the chief of our Cabinet, giving him a prefecture of the first class by way of consolation; but we kept the chef of our kitchen.”
“Ah, you see,” said M. Barreau, who rejoiced to hear this story, “you see what it is to serve in the house of a grand seigneur. But parvenus are parvenus—what will you have?”
“And that is all Jansoulet is,” added M. Francis, tugging at his cuffs. “A man who used to be a street porter at Marseilles.”
M. Noel took offence at this.
“Hey, down there, old Francis, you are very glad all the same to have him to pay your card-debts, the street porter of La Cannebriere. You may well be embarrassed by parvenus like us who lend millions to kings, and whom grand seigneurs like Mora do not blush to admit to their tables.”
“Oh, in the country,” chuckled M. Francis, with a sneer that showed his old tooth.
The other rose, quite red in the face. He was about to give way to his anger when M. Louis made a gesture with his hand to signify that he had something to say, and M. Noel sat down immediately, putting his hand to his ear like all the rest of us in order to lose nothing that fell from those august lips.
“It is true,” remarked the personage, speaking with the slightest possible movement of his mouth and continuing to take his wine in little sips, “it is true that we received the Nabob at Grandbois the other week. There even happened something very funny on the occasion. We have a quantity of mushrooms in the second park, and his excellency amuses himself sometimes by gathering them. Now at dinner was served a large dish of fungi. There were present, what’s his name—I forget, what is it?—Marigny, the Minister of the Interior, Monpavon, and your master, my dear Noel. The mushrooms went the round of the table, they looked nice, the gentlemen helped themselves freely, except M. le Duc, who cannot digest them and out of politeness feels it his duty to remark to his guests: ‘Oh, you know, it is not that I am suspicious of them. They are perfectly safe. It was I myself who gathered them.’