“Excellent sauces?”
“Mon Dieu—Béchamel—Hollandaise—chaud-froid—maître d’hôtel—Espagnole—Béarnaise—” Patsy completed the list with an ecstatic kiss blown into the air.
Madame sighed and spoke in English: “It is unbelievable—absurd. I shouldn’t trust my own eyes or palate if I sat down to-night to the most remarkable dinner in the world; but one must feed one’s guests.” She looked Patsy over again. “Your trunk?”
“Trunk? Is it toilettes or sauces madame wishes me to make for her guests? Ma foi! Trunks—references—one is as unimportant as the other. Is it not enough for the present if I cook for madame? Afterward—” She ended with the all-expressive shrug.
Evidently madame conceded the point, for without further comment she led the way to the kitchen and presented the bill of fare for dinner.
“‘For twelve,’” read Patsy. “And to-morrow is Sunday. Ah, Providence is good to madame, mais-oui?”
But madame’s thoughts were on more practical matters. “Your wages?”
“One hundred francs a week, and the kitchen to myself. I, too, have a temper, madame.” Patsy gave a quick toss to her head, while her eyes snapped.
That night the week-end guests at Quality House sat over their coffee, volubly commenting on the rare excellence of their dinner and the good fortune of their hostess in her possession of such a cook. Madame kept her own counsel and blessed Providence; but she did not allow that good fortune to escape with her better judgment—or anything else. She ordered the butler, before retiring, to count the silver and lock it in her dressing-room; this was to be done every night—as long as the new cook remained.