With a shrug of resignation the two artists deplored the waste of talent for which armed democracies are responsible; and M. Lucas began in resolute tones to announce his plan of campaign. He had the curt precision which all great captains possess.
"Since the war broke out, His Majesty has expressed a wish to be rationed like his people. Therefore the menu is to be very simple: truite à la Bellevue, tournedos aux pommes, some fruit.—Of course there will have to be an entrée and some dessert for the Staff. The drink will be cider."
"May I remind you, Monsieur Lucas," Sir Charles put in anxiously, "that Her Majesty prefers to drink milk?"
"I have already told you," said the chef, annoyed, "that the Queen will drink cider like everybody else.... Nevertheless, Paillard, you will kindly show me the contents of your cellar; there will, of course, have to be wine for the Staff. The tournedos, I need hardly say, are to be grilled over a charcoal fire, and larded, of course. As to salad—seasoning, tomatoes and walnuts——"
As he gave his orders, he illustrated their execution with gestures of the utmost solemnity, and his hands moved busily amongst imaginary saucepans.
"The menu is short," he said, "but it must be perfect. The great cook is better recognized by the perfection of a piece of beef—or let me say rather by the seasoning of a salad—than by the richness of his sweets. One of the finest successes in my career—the one I enjoy recalling above all others—is that
of having initiated the English aristocracy into the mysteries of Camembert. The choice of fruit—now I come to think of it, Paillard, have you any peaches?"
"I should think we had!" said the latter, breaking open the lid of a crate which revealed a number of delicately shaded ripe peaches glowing in their beds of straw and cotton-wool.
The chef took one and stroked it gently.
"Paillard, Paillard," he said sadly, "do you call these peaches? I can see you have been a soldier, poor fellow. Never mind, I can send the car to Montreuil."