"Le roi ordonnait le matin petit souper ou très petit souper; mais ce dernier était abondant et de trois services sans le fruit."—Saint-Simon.
In the month of February 1918, Aurelle was ordered by the French mission at British G.H.Q. to report at the sous-préfecture at Abbeville and to hold himself for one day at the disposal of M. Lucas, who would call for him in due course.
Aurelle waited for some time for M. Lucas, who eventually appeared escorted by an English chauffeur. He was a rather stout, clean-shaven little man, and wore a well-made blue suit and a yachting cap. With his hands in his pockets, his
curt speech and the authority of his demeanour, he looked every inch a man accustomed to command.
"You are the interpreter from G.H.Q.?" he asked. "Have you a written order?"
Aurelle was obliged to admit he had only received an order by telephone.
"I can't understand it!" said M. Lucas. "The most necessary precautions are neglected. Have you at least been told who I am? No? Well, listen to me, my friend, and kindly hold your tongue for a minute."
He went and shut the door of the sous-préfet's office, and came back to the interpreter. "I am——" he began.
He looked nervously about him, closed a window, and whispered very softly, "I am His Majesty the King of England's chef."
"Chef?" Aurelle repeated, not grasping his meaning.