“That won’t do. Show him in, garçon, show him in!” cried Tom Cawley, who was Allen’s principal ally in the plot.
Here the cook burst into the room. He had on a white cap and a white apron. A white apron was thrown over his shoulder, and his hands were white with flour.
“Alphonse!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, starting up with dismay, as he gazed on the once familiar apparition.
“Count Deflamzi!” ejaculated Mrs. Remnant. “This is indeed eccentric.”
“No more Count Deflamzi, madame, than this is Count Tousky, but plain Alphonse Fricandeau, gastronomical artist, or in vulgar language, cook, from Paris.”
“What! isn’t he a count?”
“No, madame; he is a cook!”
“A cook! my salts, Mr. Remnant! Quick, you stupid man!”
“I appeal to the company,” said Tousky Wousky, recovering himself, “Madame, this is a conspiracy. I can produce letters from the first noblemen in London—”
“The company shall soon be satisfied on that point,” said Monsieur Fricandeau. “Eugene, request the attendance of Lord Morvale.”