“But a glorious preparation for it,” interrupted he. “How delightful must be the enjoyment to the unsophisticated palate of those first impressions which a carpe à la Chambord, a pheasant truffé, a dish of ortolans à la Provengale, inspire! But here we are. Our party is a small one,—an old préfet of the South, an abbé, a secretary of the Russian embassy, and ourselves.”
This information he gave me as we mounted a narrow and winding stair, dimly lighted by a single lamp. On reaching the landing, however, a waiter stood in readiness to usher us into a small apartment decorated with all the luxury of gold and plate glass, so profusely employed in the interior of all cafés. The guests already mentioned were there, and evidently awaiting our arrival with no small impatience.
“As usual, Henri,” said the old man, whom I guessed to be the préfet,—“as usual, an hour behind your appointment.”
“Forgive him. Monsieur,” said abbé, with a simper. “The fascinations of a Court—”
The grimace the old man made at this last word threw the whole party into a roar of laughter, which only ceased by the marquis presenting me in all form to each of his friends.
“À table, à table, for Heaven's sake!” cried the préfet, ringing the bell, and bustling about the room with a fidgety impatience.
This was, however, unneeded; for in less than five minutes the supper made its appearance, and we took our places at the board.
The encomiums pronounced as each dish came and went satisfied me that the feast was unexceptionable. As for myself, I ate away, only conscious that I had never been so regaled before, and wondering within me how far ingenuity had been exercised to produce the endless variety that appeared at table. The wine, too, circulated freely; and Champagne, Bordeaux, and Chambertin followed one another in succession, as the different meats indicated the peculiar vintage. In the conversation I could take no part,—it was entirely gastronomic; and no man ever existed more ignorant of the seasons that promised well for truffles, or the state of the atmosphere that threatened acidity to the vines.
“Well, Henri,” said the préfet, when the dessert made its appearance, and the time for concluding the gourmand dissertation seemed arrived,—“well! and what news from the Tuileries?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” said he, carelessly,—“the same people; the same topics; the eternal game of tric-trac with old Madame d'Angerton; Denon tormenting some new victim with a mummy or a map of Egypt; Madame Lefebvre relating camp anecdotes—”