"Berne. Berne," said Schmidt, coldly. "I was never in Berne."
"Ah, I beg pardon. I must be mistaken."
"Are you here for a long stay?"
"Only for a few days. I am wandering in a land of lost opportunities."
"Of what?" asked Schmidt.
"Oh, of the cook. Think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divine terrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey, unappreciated, crudely cooked; the Madeira—ah, mon Dieu! I would talk of them, and, behold, the men talk politics! I have eaten of that dish at home, and it gave me the colic of disgust."
"But the women?" said a young émigré.
"Ah, angels, angels. But can they make an omelet? The divine Miss Morris would sing to me when I would speak seriously of my search for truffles. Oh, she would sing the 'Yankee Dudda'[1] and I must hear the 'Lament of Major André.' Who was he?"
[1] He so writes it in his "Physiologie du goût."
De Courval explained.