The church not only has agreeable architectural features and the tomb of this good woman, it has also some admirable glass, not exactly beautiful but very quaint and interesting, including a famous window by the Pinaigriers, representing the mystery of the wine-press, as drawn from Isaiah: "I have trodden the wine-press alone, and of the people there was none with me". The colouring is very rich and satisfying, even if the design itself offends by its literalism and want of imagination—Christianity being figured by the blood of Christ as it gushes forth into barrels pressed from his body as relentlessly as ever was juice of the grape. All this is horrible, but one need not study it minutely. There are other windows less remarkable but not less rich and glowing.
Other illustrious dust that lies beneath this church is that of Racine and Pascal.
CHAPTER XIII
TWO ZOOS
The Tour d'Argent—Frédéric's Homage to America—A Marquis Poet—The Halle des Vins—A Free Zoo—Peacocks in Love—A Reminiscence—The Museums of the Jardin des Plantes—A Lifeless Zoo—Babies in Bottles—The Jardin d'Acclimatation—The Cheerful Gallas—A Pretty Stable—Dogs on Velvet—A Canine Père Lachaise—The Sunday Sportsmen—Panic at the Zoos—The Besieged Resident—The Humours of Famine.
On the day of one of my visits to the Jardin des Plantes I lunched at the Tour d'Argent, a restaurant on the Quai de la Tournelle, famous among many dishes for its delicious canard à la presse. No bird on this occasion passed through that luxurious mill for me: but the engines were at work all around distilling essential duck with which to enrich those slices from the breast that are all that the epicure eats. Over a simpler repast I studied a bewildering catalogue of the "Créations of Frédéric"—Frédéric being M. Frédéric Delair, a venerable chef with a head like that of a culinary Ibsen, stored with strange lore of sauces.
By what means one commends oneself to Frédéric I cannot say, but certain it is that if he loves you he will immortalise you in a dish. Americans would seem to have a short cut to his heart, for I find the Canapé Clarence Mackay, the Filet de Sole Loië Fuller, the Filet de Sole Gibbs, the Fondu de Merlan Peploe, the Poulet de Madame J. W. Mackay, and the Poire Wanamaker. None of these joys tempted me, but I am sorry now that I did not partake of the Potage Georges Cain, because M. Georges Cain knows more about old Paris than any man living; and who knows but that a few spoonfuls of his Potage might not have immensely enriched this book! The Noisette de Pré-Salé Bodley again should have been nourishing, for Mr. Bodley is the author of one of the best of all the many studies of France. Instead, however, I ate very simply, of ordinary dishes—foundlings, so to speak, named after no one—and amused myself over my coffee in examining the Marquis Lauzières de Thémines' poésie sur les Créations de Frédéric (to the air of "la Corde Sensible"). Two stanzas and two choruses will illustrate the noble poet's range:—
Que de filets de sole on y consomme!
Sole Néron, Cardinal, Maruka.
Dosamentès, Edson ... d'autres qu'on nomme
Victor Renault, Saintgall, Hérédia.
La liste est longue! rognons, côtelettes,
Poulet Sigaud et Canard Mac-Arthur,
Filets de lièvre Arnold White et Noisettes
De Pré-salé, Langouste Wintherthur.
Ce que je fais n'est pas une réclame,
Je vous le dis pour être obligeant.
Je m'en voudrais d'encourir votre blâme
Pour avoir trop vanté La Tour D'Argent.
Les noms des Œufs de cent façons s'étalent,
Œufs Bûcheron, œufs Claude Lowther.
Œufs Tuck, Rathbone, œufs Mackay que n'égalent
Que les chaud-froids de volaille Henniker.
Que d'entremets ont nom de "la Tournelle"!
Et plus souvent, le vocable engageant
Du restaurant, car plus d'un plat s'appelle
(Gibier, beignets, salade) "Tour d'Argent".
Ami lecteur, pour faire bonne chère,
Ecoute-moi, ne sois pas négligent,
Va-t-en dîner, si ta santé t'est chère,
Au Restaurant nommé La Tour D'Argent.