“Now he is the soul of a vol-au-vent, now of a sauce; not a pie-crust fit to eat but stands by virtue of my lord the egg, and should all the hens in the world commit suicide, to-morrow every chef in France worthy of the name would fall on his spit, as Vatel fell on his sword, and with more reason, for fish is but a course in a dinner, whereas the egg is the cement that holds all the castle of cookery together.”
“Pardieu, Monsieur Brommard,” said Lavenne, laughing, “you are quite a philosopher, and I shall certainly take off my hat to the next hen I meet. But, tell me, what has an egg to do with the poisoning of Atalanta?”
“Nothing, Monsieur Lavenne; God forbid that it should. I was about to say that, just as all cookery stands on an egg, so does the whole world stand on commonsense; and it is not commonsense to think that any man would poison Atalanta, who was a gentle beast, on purpose to spite his Majesty. Atalanta, in my opinion, poisoned herself. Dogs are not like cats. If you will observe, a cat is very nice in her feeding. Offer her even a piece of fish, and she will sniff it to make sure that it is in good condition and not poisonous, before she will touch it. Whereas dogs eat everything.”
“Dogs eat roses,” said a small voice.
It was Brommard’s little son, who, dressed in a white cap and apron, was serving his apprenticeship as a scullion. He had drawn close to his father, and had listened solemnly to the discourse about eggs.
Brommard glanced down and laughed, then he excused himself for a moment to supervise the work of one of the under-cooks, who was larding a fowl.
“Oh,” said Lavenne, “dogs eat roses, do they? And how do you know?”
“Monsieur,” said the child, “I have seen Atalanta, the beautiful dog of his Majesty, snap at a rose. I told my father when they were saying that Atalanta was poisoned, and I said that I had seen Atalanta eat a rose, and that perhaps the rose had killed her, and he laughed. But dogs do eat roses.”
“And where did you see Atalanta eat this rose?”
“It was near Les Onze Arpents, monsieur. A gentleman and a lady were walking together, and he was holding a rose in his hand. The rose was hanging down, so, and the dog, who was following them, sniffed at the rose and then bit it.”