Despite all these vagaries of his magnificence, Bois-Doré had transformed his little manor-house into a luxurious nest, warm and cheery, which had cost him more than it was worth, but which it would be most delightful to find intact in one of the little provincial châteaux, which to-day are neglected, dilapidated, falling in ruins, or changed into farmhouses.
It would have taken three days to inspect all the curious trifles which are described to-day by the new name of bibelots, but which would be more appropriately called bribelots.[9] Our inquisitive and investigating generation is entitled, however, to give whatever name it chooses to a variety of exploration which is peculiar to it, and we gladly accept the verb bibeloter, although it is only used by the initiated.
However, we will not bibeloter—catalogue—here the interesting collection of curios at Briantes; it would take too long; we will say simply that Monsieur d'Alvimar might well have fancied himself in the shop of a second-hand dealer, so striking was the contrast between the profusion of gewgaws heaped upon sideboards and mantels, or piled in pyramids on the tables, and the chilling bareness of the Spanish palaces in which he had passed his youth.
Amid all that glass and porcelain, flagons, candlesticks, chandeliers, punch-bowls, urns, to say nothing of the ewers, cups and small dishes of gold, silver, amber or agate; the chairs of all shapes and sizes, nailed, fringed and covered with Chinese silk; the benches and cupboards of carved oak, with great clasps of openwork iron over a background of scarlet cloth; the curtains of satin worked with gold flowers, large and small, and embellished with gold-fringed lambrequins, etc., etc., there were certainly some beautiful objects of art and charming products of industry, mingled with much worthless trash and much inappropriate elegance. In a word the general effect was brilliant and agreeable, although there was altogether too much of it, and one hardly dared move for fear of breaking something.
When D'Alvimar had expressed his surprise at finding that palace of the fairy Babiole in the modest valleys of Berry, and Bois-Doré had obligingly exhibited the principal treasures of his salon, Bellinde the housekeeper, who went in and out issuing orders in a clear and resonant voice, announced to her master in an undertone that the supper was ready, while the page threw the doors wide open, shouting the usual formula, and the clock of the château struck seven with a burst of music in the Flemish style.
D'Alvimar, who had never been able to accustom himself to the abundance of dishes in France, was surprised to find the table covered, not only with gold plate and candlesticks adorned with glass flowers of all colors, but with a quantity of food sufficient to have satisfied a dozen persons with hearty appetites.
"Oh! this is not a supper," said Bois-Doré, whom he gently chid for treating him like a gourmand; "this is simply a little lunch by candlelight. Make an effort, and if my chief cook has not got tipsy in my absence, you will see that the rascal knows how to awaken the sluggish appetite."
D'Alvimar made no further remonstrance, and found that his appetite did in fact come to him in spite of himself.
Never had he tasted such exquisite cheer at the table of the great noblemen of his own nation, nor anything more exquisite in the most splendid mansions in Paris. There were none but the daintiest little dishes, deliciously seasoned, and most scientifically compounded after the fashion of the time: bisque of crab, fat quail stuffed, pastry light as air, perfumed creams of several flavors in marchpane shells, biscuits with saffron and with clove, fine native wines, among which the old wine of Issoudun could hold its own with the best vintages of Bourgogne; and at dessert the headiest wines of Greece and Spain.
They passed two hours tasting a little of everything, Bois-Doré talking of the cellar and cuisine like a consummate master, and Bellinde directing the servants with unequalled knowledge and skill.