“In Panama,” went on Rouvière, “I’ve eaten roasted monkey. But what need to enumerate? There’s nothing edible in creation that I have not swallowed. So that I believe I may say,” here he bowed thanks for a second snipe, “there does not exist a man under the firmament of heaven easier to satisfy than myself. The Rocky Mountain Indians—those Indians are most extraordinarily sagacious—the Rocky Mountain Indians, I say, gave me a surname while I was among them—‘Choc-ugh-tou-saw,’ which signifies good-humored stomach, because I was always satisfied with my dinner!”
“What a wonderful fellow!” reiterated Dupuis. “Come, Tom, try this Burgundy; your throat must be dry. What a wonderful fellow, to be sure!”
“Do let me prevail on you to take another snipe,” said Mme. Dupuis, holding up to the guest’s acceptance a third fine, fat bird; “I’m so glad to find that you like them!”
“No, madame, no, a thousand thanks. Yes, I don’t deny that I am fond of snipes, but, I’m sorry—I can’t deceive you—these are not just what they ought to be. In the first place, they have not been killed long enough; and, secondly, you have forgotten to pepper them—a process absolutely necessary with game. But, excuse me, for the last half-hour I’ve been looking at that covered dish, wondering what there is in it. I really don’t believe that I have ever felt more curiosity in the whole course of my life; excuse me, I must look into it.”
He raised the cover as he spoke, peering in with eyes and nose.
“In the name of all the saints, what is it?” he exclaimed, as he contemplated the contents and sniffed up the steam.
“My dear friend,” answered Dupuis, a little nervously, “it is something I had concocted on purpose for you—it is macaroni.”
“Macaroni! That macaroni!” shouted Rouvière, as if never more surprised in his life.
“Yes, M. Rouvière,” explained Mme. Dupuis, no longer smiling, poor little woman! “This dish was inspired by George’s friendship. He remembered that you were very fond of Italy, so I sent in haste to the grocer’s; he fortunately had still a small quantity of macaroni on hand, and then, with the help of my cookery-book—for Jeannette couldn’t manage it—I made you a plat à l’italienne.”
“A l’italienne!” repeated George’s old friend with a sneering laugh. “My dear, good lady, that’s not macaroni à l’italienne! Oh! no, no. However, who knows?—it may be good to eat all the same. Let us try!” So saying, M. Rouvière helped himself to a spoonful, while his hosts looked on anxiously.