Mr. de —— is a perfect cynic, and piques himself on saying what he thinks,—a habit more frequently adopted by those who think disagreeable, than agreeable things.
Dined yesterday at Madame C——'s, and being Friday, had a dîner maigre, than which I know no dinner more luxurious, provided that the cook is a perfect artist, and that the Amphitryon, as was the case in this instance, objects not to expense.
The soupes and entrées left no room to regret the absence of flesh or poultry from their component parts, and the relevés, in the shape of a brochet rôti, and a turbot à la hollandaise supplied the place of the usual pièces de résistance. But not only was the flavour of the entrées quite as good as if they were composed of meat or poultry, but the appearance offered the same variety, and the côtelettes de poisson and fricandeau d'esturgeon might have deceived all but the profoundly learned in gastronomy,—they looked so exactly like lamb and veal.
The second course offered equally delicate substitutes for the usual dainties, and the most fastidious epicure might have been more than satisfied with the entremets.
The bishops in France are said to have had the most luxurious dinners imaginable on what were erroneously styled fast-days; and their cooks had such a reputation for their skill, that the having served à Monseigneur d'Église was a passport to the kitchens of all lovers of good eating. There are people so profane as to insinuate that the excellence at which the cooks arrived in dressing les dîners maigres is one of the causes why Catholicism has continued to flourish; but this, of course, must be looked on as a malicious hint of the enemies to that faith which thus proves itself less addicted to indulgence in the flesh than are its decryers.
CHAPTER XVII.
The more I observe Lady C—— the more surprised I am at the romantic feelings she still indulges, and the illusions under which she labours;—yes labours is the suitable word, for it can be nothing short of laborious, at her age, to work oneself into the belief that love is an indispensable requisite for life. Not the affection into which the love of one's youth subsides, but the wild, the ungovernable passion peculiar to the heroes and heroines of novels, and young ladies and gentlemen recently emancipated from boarding-schools and colleges.
Poor Lady C——, with so many estimable qualities, what a pity it is she should have this weakness! She maintained in our conversation yesterday that true love could never be extinguished in the heart, and that even in age it burnt with the same fire as when first kindled. I quoted to her a passage from Le Brun, who says—"L'amour peut s'éteindre sans doute dans le coeur d'un galant homme; mais combien de dédommagements n'a-t-il pas alors à offrir! L'estime, l'amitié, la confiance, ne suffisent-elles pas aux glaces de la vieillesse?" Lady C—— thinks not.
Talking last night of ——, some one observed that "it was disagreeable to have such a neighbour, as he did nothing but watch and interfere in the concerns of others."
"Give me in preference such a man as le Comte ——," said Monsieur ——, slily, "who never bestows a thought but on self, and is too much occupied with that interesting subject to have time to meddle with the affairs of other people."