The dinner went on with talk and laughter. Savarin talking broken English, or more volubly French.
"You are to have the crabs which are soft, Monsieur Girard, en papillotte, more becoming crabs than women, and at the close reed-birds. Had there been these in France, and the crab which is soft, and the terrapin, there would have been no Revolution. And the Madeira—perfect, perfect, a revelation. Your health, Mr. Bingham."
Bingham bowed over his glass, and regretted that canvasback ducks and terrapin were not yet in season. The émigrés used well this rare chance, and with talk of the wine and jest and story (anything but politics), the dinner went on gaily. Meanwhile Girard, beside De Courval, spoke of their sad experiences in the fever, and of what was going on in the murder-scourged West Indian Islands, and of the ruin of our commerce. Marino in his white cap and long apron stood behind the host, quietly appreciative of the praise given to his dinner.
Presently Savarin turned to him. "Who," he asked, "dressed this salad. It is a marvel, and quite new to me."
"I asked Monsieur de Beauvois to do me the honor."
"Indeed! Many thanks, De Beauvois," said the host to a gentleman at the farther end of the table. "Your salad is past praise. Your health. You must teach me this dressing."
"A secret," laughed the guest, as he bowed over his glass, "and valuable."
"That is droll," said De Courval to Bingham.
"No; he comes to my house and to Willing's to dress salad for our dinners. Ten francs he gets, and lives on it, and saves money."
"Indeed! I am sorry for him," said René.