Then he inquired about the kitchen. It was a vast and well-lighted place; the red and white tiles on the polished floor shone brightly in the sunshine; magnificent but useless copper saucepans hung upon the walls.
In front of the oven a cook in a white cap was at work with a few assistants. Surprised by the noise, he turned round, and, suddenly recognizing the man in the blue suit, went as white as his cap, and dropped the pan he was holding in his hand.
"You?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, my friend," replied the august visitor quite simply. "What a surprise to find you here! What a pleasure also," he added kindly. "Ah, now I feel relieved! An alfresco meal, a strange kitchen like this, made me very anxious, I must confess. But with such a lieutenant as you, my dear friend, the battle is already half won."
"Yes," he continued, turning towards Aurelle, who was gazing with emotion upon the encounter and thinking of Napoleon entrusting his cavalry to Ney on the eve of Waterloo, "it is a curious coincidence to find Jean Paillard here. At the age of fifteen we made our début together under the great Escoffier. When I was appointed chef to the Ritz, Paillard took charge of the Carlton; when I took Westminster, he accepted Norfolk."
Having thus unconsciously delivered himself of this romantic couplet—which goes to prove once again that poetry is the ancient and natural expression of all true feeling—M. Lucas paused for a moment, and, lowering his gaze, added in an infinitely expressive undertone:
"And here I am now with the King. What about you?"
"I?" replied the other with a touch of shame. "It's only two months since I was released; till then I was in the trenches."
"What!" exclaimed M. Lucas, scandalized. "In the trenches? A chef like you!"
"Yes," answered Jean Paillard with dignity. "I was cook at G.H.Q."