We entered an inn, opportunely near the spot whither we had wandered. It was in an important part of the town, close by the lion-surmounted palace of some monseigneur; and coaches and berlines discharged themselves in frequent succession in its yard. We walked into the salle à manger, sat down, and endeavoured to make our wishes known to the waiter. The room was fairly empty, but a party of half-a-dozen young “bloods”—hommes de bonne compagnie—sitting at a neighbouring table, seemed moved with a certain curiosity about us, and by-and-by one of these rose, crossed over, and, addressing me in very good French, asked if he could be of service in interpreting my desires—“For,” says he, with a smile, “I perceive that monsieur is from over the Channel.”
“Alas, monsieur!” I answered. “We are, indeed, of that foundered vessel, La Ville de Paris, the worthless wreckage of which every tide washes up on your coasts.”
Some compliments passed, and he withdrew to join his companions. A little whispering was exchanged amongst them, and then suddenly our dandy arose and approached us once more, with infinite complaisance.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I cannot, I find, convince my friends of the extent to which your nation excels in the art of making salads. Would you do us the favour to mix one for us?”
I hesitated.
“It is one of thy accomplishments,” said Madame la Comtesse, at a hazard.
It was, indeed, though she could not have known it; or that Brillat-Savarin himself had once acknowledged me to be his master in the art.
“I shall be charmed,” I said.
I called for oil, wine, vinegar, sweet fruits, the sauces of soy and ketchup, caviare, truffles, anchovies, meat-gravy, and the yolks of eggs. I had a proportion and a place for each; and while I broke the lettuces, my company sat watching, and engaged me in some pretty intimate conversation, asking many questions about Paris, my former and present conditions, and even my place of abode.
I answered good-humouredly on account of my dear Philippe, who was of the very complexion and moral of these frank rascals; and presently they pronounced my salad such a dish as Vitellius had never conceived; and, from their table, they drank to its author and to the beautiful eyes of Madame la Comtesse.