“Je dois vous prévenir,” said the colonel, laughing as he strolled from the door, after giving his directions, “Je dois vous prévenir, que je mange bien, et beaucoup.”
“Monsieur shall be content,” said the host, with a tap on his own stomach, as though to say,—“The nourishment that has sufficed for this, may well content such a carcass as thine—”
“And as for wine—continued the colonel.
“Zum kissen!” cried the host, with a smack of his lips, that could be heard over the whole Platz, and which made a poor captain’s mouth water, who guessed the allusion.
I shall not detail for my reader, though I most certainly heard myself the long bill of fare, by which the Rue Branch intended to astonish the weak nerves of the Frenchman, little suspecting, at the time, how mutual the surprise was destined to be. I remember there was “fleisch” and “braten” without end, and baked pike, and sausages, and boar’s head, and eels, and potted mackerel, and brawn, and partridges; not to speak of all the roots that ever gave indigestion since the flood, besides sweetmeats and puddings, for whose genera and species it would take Buffon and Cuvier to invent a classification. As I heard the formidable enumeration, I could not help expressing my surprise at the extent of preparations, so manifestly disproportionate to the amount of the company; but the host soon satisfied me on this head, by saying, “that they were obliged to have an immense supply of cold viands always ready to sell to the other officers throughout the town, whom,” he added in a sly whisper, “they soon contrived to make pay for the heavy ransom imposed on themselves.” The display, therefore, which did such credit to his hospitality, was made with little prospect of injuring his pocket—a pleasant secret, if it only were practicable.
The hour of dinner arrived at last, and the Colonel, punctual to the moment, entered the salon, which looked out by a window on the Platz—a strange contrast, to be sure, for his eyes; the great side-board loaded with luscious fare, and covered by an atmosphere of savoury smoke; and the meagre bivouack without, where groups of officers sat, eating their simple rations, and passing their goblets of washy beer from hand to hand.
Rouchefoucauld says, “There is always something pleasant in the misfortunes of our best friends;” and as I suppose he knew his countrymen, I conclude that the Colonel arranged his napkin on his knee with a high sense of enjoyment for the little panorama which met his eyes on the Platz.
It must certainly have been a goodly sight, and somewhat of a surprise besides, for an old campaigner to see the table groaning under its display of good things; amid which, like Lombardy poplars in a Flemish landscape, the tall and taper necks of various flasks shot up—some frosted with an icy crest, some cobwebbed with the touch of time.
Ladling the potage from a great silver tureen of antique mould, the host stood beside the Colonel’s chair, enjoying—as only a host can enjoy—the mingled delight and admiration of his guest; and now the work began in right earnest. What an admirable soup, and what a glass of “Niederthaler”—no hock was ever like it; and those pâtés—they were “en bechamelle.” “He was sorry they were not oysters, but the Chablis, he could vouch for.” And well he might; such a glass of wine might console the Emperor for Leipsic.
“How did you say the trout was fried, my friend?”