"There is only one place where people do dine," I answered, a little reproachfully. "The Bon Marché. I will order the dinner."
So the place and the date were fixed.
As Faustine was a quarter of an hour late—I had not seen her since our arrangement—I waited in the alabaster portico of the Bon Marché, chatting amiably to the courteous commissionaire, an old comrade of mine in the Wimbledon days. Jules, the courteous chef, was au désespoir. Why had I not given him more notice? Madame was fifteen minutes late. If he had only known! In a year and fifteen minutes it is possible to cook a dinner. In a year—no. I tried to calm the worthy fellow—an old ally of mine in the Crimean war. In vain; he complained the sardines were spoiling. So I went into the dining-room, nodding courteously to eight princes of the blood, neither of whom appeared, for the moment, to recognise me.
As I seated myself, the entire staff, headed by a brass band, brought me my sardines à l'huile. These are a specialité of the house, and are never—should never be, at least—eaten with the tin. The potage à la potasse was quite excellent. I congratulated the courteous chef, pointing out to him the desirability of mixing, sometimes, a little anti-pyrine into the potassium—both drugs far too rarely used in modern cookery. Then came the question of wine. This I solved for the moment by ordering two Jeroboams of Stereoscopic Company et Fils; a cuvée of '80, absolutely reservée for my own use. As I had engaged the entire staff of waiters, a crown prince, who was entertaining one of our leading bicyclists, rose to leave, with his guest. I smiled and nodded to them as they passed, which appeared to hasten their departure.
The moulin à vent was delicious, but the dindon décousu I could not pass. No self-respecting gourmet will pass everything at a dinner.
Gontran, the kindly maître d'hôtel, was almost in tears, but I consoled him by observing that the ostriches were cooked to a turn, and the bombe glacée à l'anarchiste faultless.
But my hostess? Where was she? Where was Mademoiselle Faustine? I had quite forgotten her! I beckoned to Hagenbock, the press representative of the restaurant, who informed me she had been dead eight months! I, who read nothing but menus, had omitted to notice this in the papers. I was greatly pained. The shock unnerved me—I could eat no more. Besides, who was now to pay the bill?
Couverts, £5. Diners, £36 8s. Pain, 2s. Champagne, £47. Liqueurs, 15s. Addition, 3s.