Mouthier sprang towards him. "Sire, I beg—I plead—one moment! This must not be begun till the sweetbreads are chopping, the mushrooms and truffles cut in cubes, the lemon grated and its juice pressed out."
"Certainly. Let us begin! Mouthier, you shall direct us all as we proceed. De Gêvres, you shall prepare the sweetbreads—"
"And I, Chevalier, will cut mushrooms, while d'Epernon, who is on tiptoe with enthusiasm, does the truffles!" suggested Richelieu, smiling.
"Very well—very well! Marshal, you shall slice the carrot. You may imagine that it is an English army. Sauvré—weep over the onion!—ah! That progresses now!"
While he flung these rapid phrases about him, the King, with a by no means unskilful hand, had thrown the flour and butter into his kettle, and hurried to the fire, while an attendant made ready a bed of red embers in a corner, where the hottest flames might be avoided. Here, over the first part of his preparation, squatted the grandson of the Sun King, spoon in hand, stirring vigorously, puffing with heat, and mightily enjoying himself. No casual observer, looking into the room at this moment, could have distinguished born cook from Marquis, scullion from Duke, chef from King. M. de Gêvres, his delicate brow damp with the sweat of toil, sat gloomily upon a wooden stool, a flat board on his knees, a villanous knife in his hands, hacking vindictively at the helpless sweetbreads. De Coigny, with a light touch, sliced carrots and carried on a laughing conversation with M. de Sauvré, who, with nose tilted in the air, demolished a very large onion with a very bad grace; while d'Epernon, near by, his usual blasé manner gone, worked laboriously at the truffles, proving so slow at the business that Penthièvre, after watching him for a moment or two, obtained an implement from Mouthier, and went to his assistance. De Richelieu was more exclusive. He, with board, bowl, knife, and four dark mushrooms, had crossed the room and seated himself in a distant corner. Who was to note any change in the appearance of four of his fungi? Who suspicious enough and discourteous enough to question such a man about the contents of his earthen bowl when the King, after much measuring, stirring, boiling, and adding, finally called in excited tones for the mushrooms, truffles, and cocks'-combs, announcing to the anxious de Gêvres that for five minutes still he must work at the sweetbreads?
The three Dukes, each with his tribute, approached the fireplace, where Louis knelt over the savory mixture, which had by now been transferred to a larger kettle.
"The truffles, d'Epernon—slowly—with care— Voilà! 'Tis done."
Louis stirred vigorously, and d'Epernon, with a sigh of relief, returned to the table, his task completed.
"The cocks'-combs, Penthièvre—so! That is well. That goes charmingly. And now, du Plessis—the mushrooms. They are finely cut?"
"I trust so, Chevalier."