"What is this?" asked the old man—"rabbit?"
"No, monsieur—they are lamb cutlets."
"And this: lentil soup?"
"No, monsieur; hare soup."
It was a confusion, past all understanding. And yet more: everything served was cold, for the hot-water plates were all of malachite, and nobody dare pour hot water into them.
"Faith," said the beggar, "I'd rather have an omelette on a pewter platter," and he handed to a servant in waiting his gilded plate. The servant in bowing to take it took no heed of the candles burning on the table, and forgot all about the plumes which adorned his head. They approached too near the flame, and a strong odour of burnt feathers announced that the plume was grilling.
"A white panaché does not appear to me to be convenient for waiting at table," said the beggar again; and again the young stranger could not refrain from laughing at this reflection.
"The queen of this mansion, the Princess Vanita, is not here at present, is she?" asked the beggar.
"No, monsieur," replied one of the lackeys; "she is, at this moment, with her favourite adorers, in a country the name of which I forget, but which is highly renowned for its wines."
