by Eugène Sue
And he rang the bell again, violently.
Pablo did not appear.
“What does that mean?” murmured Dom Diégo, looking around him in dismay. “Pablo does not come! What a frightful and gloomy silence! Oh, something wonderful is happening! I dare not take a step.”
Turning his ear to listen, the canon added:
“What is that hollow sound? Nothing human. Some one is coming. Ah, I have not a drop of blood in my veins!”
At this moment the door opened so violently that the canon screamed and hid his face in his hands, as he gasped the words:
“Vade — retro — Satanas!”
It was not Satan by any means, but Pablo, the majordomo, who, not having answered the two calls of the bell, was running precipitately, and thus produced the noise that the superstitious imagination of the canon transformed into something mysterious and supernatural.
The majordomo, struck with the attitude of the canon, approached him, and said:
“Ah, my God, what is the matter with you, my lord?”
At the voice of Pablo, Dom Diégo dropped his fat hands, which covered his face, and his servant saw the terror depicted in the master’s countenance.
“My lord, my lord, what has happened?”
“Nothing, poor Pablo, — a foolish idea, which I am ashamed of now. But why are you so late?”
“Sir, it is not my fault.”
“How is that?”
“I wished, sir, from curiosity, to enter this kitchen to see the work of this famous cook.”
“Very well, Pablo?”
“After I assisted him in carrying his box, this strange man ordered me out of the kitchen, where he wished, he said, to be absolutely alone.”
“Ah, Pablo, how he surrounds himself with mystery!”
“I obeyed, my lord, but I could not resist the temptation to stay outside at the door.”
“To listen?”
“No, sir, to scent.”
“Well, Pablo?”
“Ah, my lord, my lord!”
“What is it, Pablo?”
“Little by little an odour passed through the door, so delicious, so exquisite, so tempting, so exciting, that it was impossible for me to go away. If I had been nailed to the door I could not have been more immovable. I was bewildered, fascinated, entranced!”
“Truly, Pablo?”
“You know, my lord, that you gave me the excellent breakfast they brought to you this morning.”
“Alas! yes.”
“That breakfast I have eaten, my lord.”
“Happy Pablo!”
“Well, sir, this odour of which I tell you was so appetising that I felt myself seized with a furious hunger, and, without leaving the door, I took from one of the shelves of the pantry a large piece of dry bread.”
“And you ate it, Pablo?”
“I devoured it, my lord.”
“Dry?”
“Dry,” replied the majordomo, bowing his head.
“Dry!” cried the canon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven. “It is a miracle! He breakfasted an hour ago like an ogre, and now he has just bolted a piece of dry bread!”
“Yes, my lord, this dry bread, seasoned with that juicy odour, seemed to me the most delicious of morsels.”
At this moment the clock struck noon.
“Noon!” cried the majordomo. “This marvellous cook instructed me to serve you, my lord, at noon precisely. The cover is already laid on the little table. I am going to bring it.”
“Go, Pablo,” said the canon, with a meditative air. “My destiny is about to be accomplished. The miracle, if it is a miracle, is going to be performed, — if it is to be performed; for I swear, in spite of all you have just told me, I have not the least appetite. I have a heavy stomach and a clammy mouth. Go, Pablo, I am waiting.”
There was a resignation full of doubt, of curiosity, of anguish, and of vague hope, in the accent with which Dom Diégo uttered the words, “I am waiting.”
Soon the majordomo reappeared.
He walked with a solemn air, bearing on a tray a little chafing-dish of silver, the size of a plate, surmounted with its stew-pan. On the side of the tray was a small crystal flagon, filled with a limpid liquid, the colour of burnt topaz.
Pablo, as he approached, several times held his nose to the edge of the stew-pan to inhale the appetising exhalations which escaped from it; finally, he placed on the table the little chafing-dish, the flagon, and a small card.
“Pablo,” asked the canon, pointing to the chafing-dish, surmounted with its pan, “what is that silver plate?”
“It belongs to M. Appetite, sir; under this pan is a dish with a double bottom, filled with boiling water, because this great man says the food must be eaten burning hot.”
“And that flagon, Pablo?”
“Its use is marked on the card, sir, which informs you of all the dishes you are going to eat.”
“Let me see this card,” said the canon, and he read:
“‘Guinea fowl eggs fried in the fat of quails, relieved with a gravy of crabs.
“‘N. B. Eat burning hot, make only one mouthful of each egg, after having softened it well with the gravy.
“‘Masticate pianissimo.
“‘Drink after each egg two fingers of Madeira wine of 1807, which has made five voyages from Rio Janeiro to Calcutta. (It is needless to say that certain wines are vastly improved by long voyages.)
“‘Drink this wine with meditation.
“‘It is impossible for me not to take the liberty to accompany each dish which I have the honour of serving Lord Dom Diégo with a flagon of wine appropriate to the particular character of the aforesaid dish.’”
“What a man!” exclaimed the majordomo, with an expression of profound admiration, “he thinks of everything!”
The canon, whose agitation was increasing, lifted the top of the silver dish with a trembling hand.
Suddenly a delicious odour spread itself through the atmosphere. Pablo clasped his hands, dilating his wide nostrils and looking at the dish with a greedy eye.
In the middle of the silver dish, half steeped in an unctuous, velvety gravy of a beautiful rosy hue, the majordomo saw four little round soft eggs, that seemed still to tremble with their smoking, golden frying.
The canon, struck like his majordomo with the delicious fragrance of the dish, literally ate it with his eyes, and for the first time in two months a sudden desire of appetite tickled his palate. Nevertheless, he still doubted, believing in the deceitful illusion of a false hunger. Taking in a spoon one of the little eggs, well impregnated with gravy, he shovelled it into his large mouth.
“Masticate pianissimo, my lord!” cried Pablo, who followed every motion of his master with a beating heart. “Masticate slowly, the magician said, and afterward drink this, according to the directions.”
And Pablo poured out two fingers of the Madeira wine of 1807, in a glass as thin as the peel of an onion, and presented it to Dom Diégo.
Oh, wonder! Oh, marvel! Oh, miracle! The second movement of the mastication pianissimo was hardly accomplished when the canon threw his head gently back, and, half shutting his eyes in a sort of ecstasy, crossed his two hands on his breast, still holding in one hand the spoon with which he had just served himself.
“Well, my lord?” said Pablo, with keen interest, as he presented the two fingers of Madeira wine, “well?”
The canon did not reply, but took the glass eagerly and carried it to his lips.
“Above all, sir, drink with meditation,” cried Pablo, a scrupulous observer of the cook’s order.
The canon drank, indeed, with meditation, then clapped his tongue against his palate, and, if that can be said, listened an instant to relish the flower of the wine which mingled so marvellously with the after-taste of the dish he had just tasted; then, without replying to the interrogations of Pablo, he ate pianissimo the three last Guinea fowl eggs, with a pensive and increasing delectation, emptied the little flagon of M
adeira wine, and, — must we confess the dreadful impropriety? — he actually dipped his bread so scrupulously into every drop of the crab gravy in which the eggs were served that the bottom of the silver dish soon shone with an immaculate lustre.
Then addressing his majordomo for the first time, Dom Diégo exclaimed, in a tender voice, while tears glittered in his eyes:
“Ah, Pablo!”
“What is the matter, my lord? This emotion—”
“Pablo, I do not know who it is has said that great joys have something melancholy in them; whoever did say it has not made a mistake, because, from the infirmity of our nature, we often sink under the weight of the greatest felicities. Now, for the first time in two months, I can really say I eat, and I eat as I have never eaten in my life. No, no, human language, you must see, my dear Pablo, cannot express the luxury, the exquisite delicacy of this dish, so simple in appearance, Guinea fowl eggs fried in the fat of quail, watered with gravy of crabs. No, for you see, in proportion as I relish them I felt my appetite renew itself, and at present I am much more hungry than before I ate. And this wine, Pablo, this wine, how it melts in the mouth, hey?”
“Alas! my lord,” said the majordomo, with a woeful face, “I do not know even the taste of this wine, but I am glad to believe you.”
“Oh, yes, believe me, my poor Pablo; it is dry and velvety at the same time, — what shall I say? a nectar! and if you only knew, Pablo, how admirably the flavour of this nectar mingles with the perfume of the crab gravy! It is ideal, Pablo, ideal, I tell you, and I ought to be radiant, crazy with joy in the recovery of my lost appetite, — well, no, I feel myself overcome with an inexpressible tenderness; in fact, I weep like a child! Pablo, do you see it? I am weeping, I am hungry!”
A bell sounded.
“What is that, Pablo?”
“It is he, my lord.”
“Who?”
“The great man! he is ringing for us.”
“He?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Pablo, removing the dish. “He declares that those who eat should be at the call of those who prepare their food, for only the latter know the hour, the minute, the instant each dish ought to be served and tasted so as not to lose one atom of its worth.”
“What he has said is very deep! He is right. Run, then, Pablo. My God! he is ringing again! I hope he has not taken offence. Go quick, quick!”
The majordomo ran, and, let us confess the impropriety, the poor creature, instigated by a consuming curiosity, dared to lick the dish he carried with desperate greediness, although the canon had left it absolutely clean. The ever increasing impatience with which the canon looked for the different dishes, always unknown to him beforehand, can be imagined.
Each service was accompanied with an “order,” as Pablo called it, and a new flagon of wine, drawn, no doubt, from the cellar of this wonderful cook.
A collection of these culinary bulletins will give an idea of the varied delights enjoyed by Dom Diégo.
After the note which announced the Guinea fowl eggs, the following menu was served, in the order in which we present it:
“Trout from the lake of Geneva with Montpellier butter, preserved in ice.
“Envelope each mouthful of this exquisite fish, hermetically, in a layer of this highly spiced seasoning.
“Masticate allegro.
“Drink two glasses of this Bordeaux wine, Sauterne of 1834, which has made the voyage from the Indies three times.
“This wine should be meditated.”
“A painter or a poet would have made an enchanting picture of this trout with Montpellier butter preserved in ice,” said the canon to Pablo. “See there, this charming little trout, with flesh the colour of a rose, and a head like mother-of-pearl, voluptuously lying on this bed of shining green, composed of fresh butter and virgin oil congealed by ice, to which tarragon, chive, parsley, and water-cresses have given this bright emerald colour! And what perfume! How the freshness of this seasoning contrasts with the pungency of the spices which relieve it! How delicious! And this wine of Sauterne! As the great man of the kitchen says, how admirably this ambrosia is suited to the character of this divine trout which gives me a growing appetite!”
After the trout came another dish, accompanied with this bulletin:
“Fillets of grouse with white Piedmont truffles, minced raw.
“Enclose each mouthful of grouse between two slices of truffle, and moisten the whole well with sauce à la Perigueux, with which black truffles are mingled.
“Masticate forte, as the white truffles are raw.
“Drink two glasses of this wine of Château-Margaux 1834, — it also has made a voyage from the Indies.
“This wine reveals itself in all its majesty only in the after-taste.”
These fillets of grouse, far from appeasing the growing appetite of the canon, excited it to violent hunger, and, in spite of the profound respect which the orders of the great man had inspired in him, he sent Pablo, before another ringing of the bell, in search of a new culinary wonder.
Finally the bell sounded.
The majordomo returned with this note, which accompanied another dish:
“Salt marsh rails roasted on toast à la Sardanapalus.
“Eat only the legs and rump of the rails; do not cut the leg, take it by the foot, sprinkle it lightly with salt, then cut it off just above the foot, and chew the flesh and the bone.
“Masticate largo and fortissimo; eat at the same time a mouthful of the hot toast, coated over with an unctuous condiment made of the combination of snipe liver and brains and fat livers of Strasburg, roebuck marrow, pounded anchovy, and pungent spices.
“Drink two glasses of Clos Vougeot of 1817.
“Pour out this wine with emotion, drink it with religion.”
After this roast, worthy of Lucullus or Trimaleyon, and enjoyed by the canon with all the intensity of unsatisfied hunger, the majordomo reappeared with two side-dishes that the menu announced thus:
“Mushrooms with delicate herbs and the essence of ham; let this divine mushroom soften and dissolve in the mouth.
“Masticate pianissimo.
“Drink a glass of the wine Côte-Rôtie 1829, and a glass of Johannisberg of 1729, drawn from the municipal vats of the burgomasters of Heidelberg.
“No recommendation to make for the advantage of the wine, Côte-Rôtie; it is a proud, imperious wine, it asserts itself. As for the old Johannisberg, one hundred and forty years old, approach it with the veneration which a centenarian inspires; drink it with compunction.
“Two sweet side-dishes.
“Morsels à la duchesse with pineapple jelly.
“Masticate amoroso.
“Drink two or three glasses of champagne dipped in ice, dry Sillery the year of the comet.
“Dessert.
“Cheese from Brie made on the farm of Estonville, near Meaux. This house had for forty years the honour of serving the palate of Prince Talleyrand, who pronounced the cheese of Brie the king of cheeses, — the only royalty to which this great diplomatist remained faithful unto death.
“Drink a glass or two of Port wine drawn from a hogshead recovered from the great earthquake of Lisbon.
“Bless Providence for this miraculous salvage, and empty your glass piously.
“N. B. Never fruits in the morning; they chill, burden, and involve the stomach at the expense of the repose of the evening; simply rinse the mouth with a glass of cream from the Barbadoes of Madame Amphoux, 1780, and take a light siesta, dreaming of dinner.”
It is needless to say that all the prescriptions of the cook were followed literally by the canon, whose appetite, now a prodigious thing, seemed to increase in proportion as it was fed; finally, having exhausted his glass to the last drop, Dom Diégo, his ears scarlet, his eyes softly closed, and his cheeks flushed, commenced to feel the tepid moisture and light torpor of a happy and easy digestion; then, sinking into his armchair with a delicious languor, he said to his majordomo:
; “If I were not conscious of a tiger’s hunger, which threatens explosion too soon, I would believe myself in Paradise. So, Pablo, go at once for this great man of the kitchen, this veritable magician; tell him to come and enjoy his work; tell him to come and judge of the ineffable beatitude in which he has plunged me, and above all, Pablo, tell him that if I do not go myself to testify my admiration, my gratitude, it is because—”
The canon was interrupted by the sight of the culinary artist, who suddenly entered the room, and stood face to face with Diégo, staring at him with a strange expression of countenance.
CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE SIGHT of the cook, who wore, according to the habit of his profession, a white vest and a cotton cap, — the ancient and highly classic schools of Laguipierre, Morel, and Carême remained faithful to the cotton cap, the young romantic school adopting the toque of white muslin, — Canon Dom Diégo rose painfully from his armchair, made two steps toward the culinary artist, with his hands extended, and cried, in a voice full of emotion:
“Welcome, my saviour, my friend, my dear friend! Yes, I am proud to give you this title; you have deserved it, because I owe you my appetite, and appetite is happiness, — it is life!”
The cook did not appear extremely grateful for the friendly title with which the canon had honoured him; he remained silent, his arms crossed on his breast, and his gaze fixed on Dom Diégo, but the latter, in the fiery ardour of gastronomic gratitude, did not observe the sardonic smile, — we would almost say Satanic smile, — which played upon the lips of the great man of the kitchen, and so continued the expression of his gratitude: