“There, of a truth, speaks Monseigneur le Comte de la Muette.”
I reached for my glass and sipped from it; but I have no doubt my hand shook.
“The citizen does not recognise me?”
“No, by my faith.”
“I am Jacques Crépin; and formerly I served where I now dine.”
I glanced at him. Some faint remembrance of the fellow woke in me.
“M. le Comte,” he went on, in the same low voice, “once rewarded me with a handsome vail for some trifling service. It was the lucky louis-d’or of my fortunes. Here was a little of the means; the Revolution was my opportunity. Now the masters serve the waiters. I devour with my teeth what I once devoured with my eyes. You see me president of a section; but, pardieu! I have no quarrel with aristocrats of a fastidious palate. It was the contemplation of such educated me to a right humour in gastronomy. I am indebted to monsieur for many a delicate hint in selection.”
Again I thought of the poor Michau.
“I am honoured,” I said. “And so, M. Crépin, this is the goal of your high republicanism?”
“My faith!” he said, with a generous chuckle, “I acknowledge it. I have existed forty years that I may live one—perhaps no more. To drink and to eat and to love en prince—I have the capacity for it and the will. I have nursed my constitution on broken scraps. This fesse-Mathieu here offends me. Had I a fortune, I would fling it away on a single desired dish if necessary. We have waived the right to think of the morrow. But, how is monsieur known?”