I have said that it is not on memory’s record that the whilom schoolboy, now in his mediÆval student mood, failed to rise at the appointed clock crow. Of a truth he rarely had less than his eight hours good sleep, glad enough as he was to retire to rest at nine—“curfew time.” But it must be admitted that on one occasion or two he succumbed to the weakness of compounding with his studious resolutions. The French equivalent of playing truant is faire l’École buissoniÈre—a taking term, redolent of the allurement of hedgerows and free green fields. And it is the memory of one of these Écoles buissoniÈres—or rather, in this case, Écoles riveraines—that, through the usual devious paths, brings me back to the forgotten question of soupe À l’oignon.

It must have been a very early day in May, for at a quarter before five, when the imperative rattle was sprung, sun-rays were just beginning to dart between the curtains. The birds in the Champs ElysÉes kept up their concert through the morning silence of the gardens with more persistent enthusiasm than usual. And on looking out of window, under such a pure sky, the out-of-door world looked quite extraordinarily inviting. It would have been folly to decline such an invitation!

The “Short History,” opened at a chapter of the Hundred Years War, was left for the nonce undisturbed: the scholar sallied forth to roam under the tall trees of the Cours la Reine, intent, no doubt, on returning after a short stroll. But there is in the early morning hours, especially on such a morning, the spell of the “invitation to the road.” The river-side, so fresh and green, and the unending line of giant plane trees on the quays, as he swung along to meet the sun, still low behind the Isle of Notre Dame, drew him on and on. He decided only to return for breakfast and Gilchrist. Then he bethought himself there would be time to stroll through those populous quarters which, unlike the residential districts, were still in many ways the Paris of the Middle Ages. That was the Paris which held for him then so potent an interest—the Paris within the walls of Charles VI; the town of Armagnacs and Burgundians, which had been governed by Bedford for his infant English King; the crowded space, in short, between the old Louvres and the new Bastille, which had been kept in order by the tramping of English men-at-arms. One inquisitive excursion led to another—nearly two hours had been spent in delightful ferreting; there was no time to return home for breakfast before the Gilchrist-ward ascent. Meanwhile a positively wolfish hunger had begun to assert itself. The scholar “searched his pouch.” This was quite in mediÆval style; and what was decidedly in the same style was the discovery of but two poor deniers for all asset! His usual pocket-money allowance was then reposing on the bed-side table, far away, save for these two pennies luckily forgotten in a waistcoat pocket.

This discovery was made, ruefully enough, as he was looking about in the vicinity of Saint Eustache for some respectable restaurateur wherein to obtain the matutinal coffee. But two deniers—twopence, vingt centimes—would never purchase breakfast at any table under a roof. What the devil...! Well, twopence in this workmen’s district would buy bread enough, anyhow, to appease the sharpest-set morning appetite. Saint Eustache, as every one knows, is close to the Halles Centrales, the great food emporium of Paris—a kind of combined Smithfield, Billingsgate, Covent Garden, and Leadenhall Market. The now frantic owner of the two pence was darting about the galleries in search of the first bread-stall, when he was arrested by a floating savour, truly ambrosial. As he stopped and involuntarily, if quite obviously, sniffed, a tempting voice rose beside him, engagingly familiar: “Oui, elle est bonne, ce matin. Tu en veux, beau garÇon?” And so saying, a fat smiling dame de la Halle, with an alert eye to business, plunged a ladle into a deep iron marmite and filled a generous-sized white bowl, something a trifle under a pint in capacity, with a steaming brown pottage, that in the circumstances was positively irresistible: “Combien, la mÈre?” asked the truant scholar, falling into the speech suitable to the place, and fingering the two modest coins with doubt and anxiety, even as might a ravening Villon, a destitute Gringoire.

“Combien, mon p’tit gros? Mais un sou, toujours!—Et au fromage,” changing her tone to mock deference as one addressing a client of importance, “au fromage, dix centimes, mon prince!—Mais, bernique! n’y en a plus!”—she added, laughing complacently and tossing her head in the direction of a second cauldron that lay empty on her left.

The more luxurious cheese pottage being “off,” and time of importance it would, volunteered the culinary Madame Angot, take ten minutes to prepare the next potful the famished wanderer proffered his penny and received his grateful bowl together with some eight inches of “long bread” in lieu of his half-denier change. And, leaning against a pillar, he set himself to the enjoyment of what, as I have remarked before, was the best breakfast of his life.

Hunger is the finest of all possible sauces—a truism even more than a proverb. The snatched crust, the draught of clear water in the palm of the hand, at some dire moment of want, is more welcome than the most cunning dish, the rarest cup in the easy tenor of life. But the plain bread and the clear water, however eagerly seized, must ever savour of hardship. Now this halfpenny worth of soupe À l’oignon bore none of that character, for all that, as far as nutriment went, it consisted of naught but bread and water. It had all the attributes of a civilized meal: it was hot, savoury, immediately comforting.

As I disposed of it at leisure—for it was scalding, and had, besides, in an Epicurean way, to be husbanded as a relish to my portion of simple loaf—I watched the rotund but brisk dame prepare another instalment of the superior, or penny, brew against the next influx of customers. The first clientÈle it appeared in course of friendly if fitful conversation came about six o’clock—journeymen without a mÉnagÈre at home, on their way to their day’s task; or night-workers in the Halles, on their way to morning sleep. The next one would begin soon—clerks, workgirls, and small employÉs who have to be at their post about eight. Then the demand for the penny bowl would rise afresh about noon.

To one who was even then tasting the full value of the finished product the method of production had the interest of actuality, and was otherwise enlightening. And, pardi! it is worth recording, as an instance of what could be done with raw material to the value of twelve sous—less than sixpence—to provide twenty people with a savoury dishful of broth and leave a distinct turnover of profit.

These—as far as I could judge—were about a score of medium-sized onions of the more pungent kind twopence, four sous or four cents; half a pound or thereabouts of butter, salt butter it is true, but your Parisian insists wherever he can upon cuisine au beurre six sous; a ladle-full of flour say one farthing, half a cent; something like two sous’ worth of stale bread, baker’s shop remnants. Leaving the cost of firing out of consideration—and in thrifty ingenious French hands it would be small—the return would be like thirty per cent. on the outlay.

As for the technique of the brewing, it was simple but elegant. The sliced onions, fried in the butter at the bottom of the iron pot to a pleasing sunset colour under the watchful eye of the matron, were at the right moment powdered with the allowance of flour and stirred until the suitable appetizing brown was achieved—“The flour is just to thicken the bouillon, you understand, my lad,” the benevolent operator was pleased to comment, noticing inquisitiveness.—Then, at the precise moment of alchemic projection, the sliced shreds of bread were precipitated in the caldron, and gently turned round with a wooden spoon to let them take unto themselves all the unction of the butter, all the essence of the succulent bulbs. And presently the whole thing was drowned under a cataract of scalding hot water some two gallons. After a bubble or two of boiling the combination was completed and the savoury caldron was set aside upon a nest of smouldering ashes, ready against the next breakfast seeker.

And the escholier, having absorbed the last crumb and the last spoonful, hastened, greatly refreshed, by every conceivable short cut to his heights of Montmartre—Mons Martyrum, by the way, some etymologists insist on dubbing, in opposition to the Mons Martis theory, in regard that it was the site of the martyrdom of St. Denis, the French “Champion of Christendom.”

He was a trifle late—no doubt as a result of short cuts—and Mr. Gilchrist proportionately stern, just at first. But the dear enthusiastic teacher gradually mellowed under the influence of that morning’s reading—the “Georgics,” most enchanting of all Garden Talk volumes. The old scholar’s geniality had completely returned by the time we reached that “doggy” passage of the Third Book beginning with “Nec tibi cura canum fuerit postrema.”

I can still see him smiling confidently at me over the line, “Let not thy dogs be the last of thy cares....” There was something prophetic about it!

Here, two score of years later, as I dream of the past, lies Arabella stretched by the fire, now and again heaving her great sighs of comfort. Bettina, curled at my feet, looks up adoringly at the master and wags her stump of tail whenever she meets his eye. As for Prince Loki, he has commandeered the best deep armchair, where he lies flat on his back, with front paws folded upon his bosom, and hind legs stretched out in abandoned beatific fashion, snoring melodiously.... Cura canum postrema, indeed!