Toward the end of the month of October, 18—, the following conversation occurred in the convent of St. Rosalie, between the mother superior, whose name was Sister Prudence, and a certain AbbÉ Ledoux, whom perhaps the readers of these recitals will remember.

The abbÉ had just entered the private parlour of Sister Prudence, a woman about fifty years old, with a pale and serious face and a sharp, penetrating eye.

"Well, dear abbÉ," said she, "what news from Dom DiÉgo? When will he arrive?"

"The canon has arrived, my dear sister."

"With his niece?"

"With his niece."

"God be praised! Now, my dear abbÉ, let us pray Heaven to bless our plans."

"Without doubt, my dear sister, we will pray, but, above all, let us play a sure game, for it will not be easy to win."

"What do you say?"

"The truth. This truth I have learned only this morning, and here it is; give me, I pray you, all your attention."

"I am listening, my dear brother."

"Moreover, that we may better agree, and clearly understand our position, let us first settle the condition of things in our minds. Two months ago, Rev. Father Benoit, who is engaged in foreign missions, and at present is in Cadiz, wrote to me recommending to my especial consideration Lord Dom DiÉgo, Canon of Alcantara, who was to sail from Cadiz to France with his niece, Dolores Salcedo."

"Very well, my brother."

"Father Benoit added that he was sufficiently acquainted with the character and disposition of Dolores Salcedo to feel sure that she could be easily persuaded to take the veil, a resolution which would have the approval of her uncle, Dom DiÉgo."

"And, as she is the only heir of the rich canon, the house which she will enter will be greatly benefited by the fortune she inherits."

"Exactly so, my dear sister. Naturally, I have thought of our convent of Ste. Rosalie for Senora Dolores, and I have spoken to you of these intentions."

"I have adopted them, my dear brother, because, having some experience with young girls, I feel almost sure that I can, by persuasion, guard this innocent dove from the snares of a seductive and corrupt world, and decide her to take the veil in our house. I shall be doing two good works: save a young girl, and turn to the good of the poor riches which, in other hands, would be used for evil; I cannot hesitate."

"Without doubt; but, now, my dear sister, the inconvenient thing is, that this innocent dove has a lover."

"What do you tell me, my brother? What horror! But then, our plans."

"I have just warned you that we must play a sure game."

"And how have you learned this shocking thing, my dear brother?"

"By the majordomo of Dom DiÉgo, a modest servant who keeps me informed of everything he can learn about the canon and his niece."

"These instructions are indispensable, my brother, because they enable us to act with intelligence and security. But what ideas has this majordomo given you concerning this unfortunate love, my dear brother?"

"Hear, now, how things have happened. The canon and his niece embarked at Cadiz, on a three-master coming from the Indies, and sailing for Bordeaux. Really, now, how many strange fatalities do occur!"

"What fatalities?"

"In the first place, the name of this vessel on which they embarked was named Gastronome."

"Why, what a singular name for a vessel!"

"Less singular than it appears at first, my dear sister, because this vessel, after having carried to the Indies the best unfermented wines of Bordeaux and the south, hams from Bayonne, smoked tongues from Troyes, pastry from Amiens and Strasbourg, tunnies and olives from Marseilles, cheese from Switzerland, preserved fruits from Touraine and Montpellier, etc., came back by the Cape of Good Hope with a cargo of wines from Constance, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, tea, salted meats of Hachar, and other comestibles of the Indies. She was to add to her cargo by taking on at Cadiz a large quantity of Spanish wine, and afterward return to Bordeaux."

"Good God, my brother! what a quantity of wine and food! It is enough to make one shudder. I understand now why the vessel was named the Gastronome."

"And you understand at the same time, my sister, why I spoke to you of strange fatalities, and why the Canon Dom DiÉgo preferred to embark on the Gastronome, rather than on any other vessel, without any regard to her destination."

"Please explain yourself, my brother."

"As for that, I ought first to inform you that I myself was in ignorance before my secret conference with the majordomo on the subject of the canon; the fact is, he is a fabulous, unheard-of glutton."

"Oh, my brother, what a horrible sin!"

"Horrible sin it may be, but do not abuse this sin too much, my dear sister, for, thanks to it, we may perhaps be able to compass our praiseworthy end and win our game."

"And how is that, my brother?"

"I am going to tell you. The canon is an ideal glutton. All his faculties, all his thoughts, are concentrated upon one sole pleasure,—the table; and it seems that at Madrid and at Cadiz his table was absolutely marvellous, because now I remember that my physician, Doctor Gasterini—"

"An abominable atheist! a Sardanapalus!" exclaimed Sister Prudence, interrupting AbbÉ Ledoux, and raising both hands to heaven. "I have never understood why you receive the medical attentions of such a miscreant!"

"I will tell you that some day, my dear sister, but, believe me, I know what I am doing. Besides, notwithstanding his great age, Doctor Gasterini is still the first physician in Paris, as he is the first glutton in the world; but, as I was saying to you, my sister, I now remember having heard him speak of a Spanish canon's table,—a table which, according to one of the doctor's correspondents in Madrid, was truly remarkable. At that time I was far from suspecting that it was Dom DiÉgo who was the subject of their correspondence. However, the poor man is a fool,—a man of small ability, and influenced by all those absurd Southern superstitions. So, upon the authority of the majordomo, it will be easy to make this gluttonous canon see the devil in flesh and bones!"

"One moment, my brother. I am not altogether displeased with the canon's foolish superstition."

"Nor I, my sister; on the contrary, it suits me exactly. That is not all. The canon, thanks to his religion, is not deceived about the grossness of his ruling passion. He knows that gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. He believes that his sin will send him to hell, yet he has not the courage to resist it; he eats with voluptuousness, and remorse comes only when he is no longer hungry."

"Instead of remorse, he ought to have indigestion, unhappy man!" said Sister Prudence. "That, perhaps, might cure him."

"True, my sister, but that is not the case. However, the canon's life is passed in enjoying and regretting that he has enjoyed; sometimes remorse, aided by superstition, leads him to expect some sudden and terrible punishment from heaven, but when appetite returns remorse is forgotten, and thus has it been a long time with the canon."

"After all, my brother, I think him far less culpable than this Sardanapalus, your Doctor Gasterini, who impudently indulges his appetite without compunction. The canon is, at least, conscious of his sin, and that is something."

"Since the character of the canon is now understood, you will not be astonished that, finding himself at Cadiz, and learning that a ship named the Gastronome was about to sail for France, Dom DiÉgo seized the opportunity to embark on a vessel so happily named, so as to be able, on his arrival at Bordeaux, to purchase several tons of the choicest wines."

"Certainly. I understand that, my dear brother."

"Well, then, Dom DiÉgo embarked with his niece on board the Gastronome. It is impossible to imagine—so the majordomo told me—the quantity of stores, provisions, and refreshments of all sorts with which the canon encumbered the deck of this vessel,—obstructions invariably forbidden by all rules of navigation,—but the commander of this ship, a certain Captain Horace, miscreant that he is, had only too good reason for ignoring discipline and making himself agreeable to the canon."

"And this reason, my brother?"

"Fascinated by the beauty of the niece, when Dom DiÉgo came with her to stipulate the terms of his passage, this contemptible captain, suddenly enamoured of Dolores Salcedo, and expecting to profit by opportunities the voyage would offer, granted all that Dom DiÉgo demanded, in the hope of seeing him embark with his niece."

"What villainy on the part of this captain, my brother!"

"Fortunately, Heaven has punished him for it, and that can save us. Well, the canon and his niece embarked on board the Gastronome, laden with all that could tempt or satisfy appetite. Just as they left port a terrible tempest arose, and the safety of the vessel required everything to be thrown into the sea, not only the canon's provisions, but cages of birds and beasts taken aboard for the sustenance of the passengers. This squall, which drove the vessel far from the coast of Bordeaux, lasted so long and with such fury that almost the entire voyage it was impossible to do any cooking, and passengers, sailors, and officers were reduced to the fare of dry biscuit and salt meat."

"Oh, the unhappy canon! what became of him?"

"He became furious, my sister, because this passage actually cost him his appetite."

"Ah, my brother, the finger of Providence was there!"

"In a word, whether by reason of the terror caused by the tempest, or a long deprivation of choice food, or whether the detestable nourishment he was compelled to take impaired his health, the canon, since he disembarked from the Gastronome, has completely lost his appetite. The little that he eats to sustain him, the majordomo tells me, is insipid and unpalatable, no matter how well prepared it may be; and more, he is tormented by the idea or superstition that Heaven has justly punished him for his inordinate indulgence. And, as Captain Horace is in his eyes the chief instrument of Heaven's anger, the canon has taken an unconquerable dislike to the miscreant, not forgetting, too, that all his luxuries were thrown into the sea by order of the captain. In vain has the captain tried to make him comprehend that his own salvation, as well as that of many others, depended on this sacrifice; Dom DiÉgo remains inflexible in his hatred. Well, my dear sister, would you believe that, notwithstanding that, the captain, upon his arrival at Bordeaux, had the audacity to ask of Dom DiÉgo the hand of his niece in marriage, assuming that this unhappy young girl was in love with him. You appreciate the fact, my sister, that two lovers do not remember bad cheer or terrible tempests, and that this miscreant has bewildered the innocent creature. I need not tell you of the fury of Dom DiÉgo at this insolent proposal from the captain, whom he regards as his mortal enemy, as the bad spirit sent to him by the anger of Heaven. So the canon has informed Dolores that, as a punishment for having dared to fall in love with such a scoundrel, he would put her in a convent upon his arrival in Paris, and that she should there take the veil."

"But, my brother, so far I see only success for our plans. Everything seems to favour them."

"Yes, my sister; but you are counting without the love of Dolores, and the resolute character of this damned captain."

"What audacity!"

"He followed on horseback, relay after relay, the carriage of the canon, galloping from Bordeaux to Paris like a state messenger. He must have a constitution of iron. He stopped at every inn where Dom DiÉgo stopped, and during the journey Dolores and the captain were ogling each other, in spite of the rage and resistance of Dom DiÉgo. Could he prevent this love-sick girl looking out of the window? Could he prevent this miscreant riding on the highway by the side of his carriage?"

"Such audacity seems incredible, does it not, my brother?"

"Which is the reason I tell you we must be on guard everywhere from this madman. He is not alone; one of his sailors, a veritable blackguard, accompanied him, riding behind in his train, and holding on to his horse like a monkey on a donkey, so the majordomo told me. But that did not matter, this demon of a sailor is capable of anything to help his captain, to whom he is devoted. And that is not all. Twenty times on the route Dolores positively told her uncle that she did not wish to become a religious, that she wished to marry the captain, and that he would know how to come to her if they constrained her,—he and his sailor would deliver her if they had to set fire to the convent."

"What a bandit!" cried Sister Prudence. "What a desperate villain!"

"You see, dear sister, how things were yesterday, when Dom DiÉgo took possession of the apartment I had previously engaged for him. This morning he desired me to visit him. I found him in bed and very much depressed. He told me that a sudden revolution had taken place in the mind of his niece; that now she seemed as submissive and resigned as she had been rebellious, that she had at last consented to go to the convent, and to-day if it was required."

"My brother, my brother, this is a very sudden and timely change."

"Such is my opinion, my sister, and, if I am not mistaken, this sudden change hides some snare. I have told you we must play a sure game. It is a great deal, no doubt, to have this love-sick girl in our hands; but we must not forget the enemy, this detestable Captain Horace, who, accompanied by his sailor, will no doubt be prowling around the house, like the ravening wolf spoken of in the Scriptures."

"QuÆrens quem devoret," said Sister Prudence, who prided herself upon her Latin.

"Just so, my sister, seeking whom he may devour, but, fortunately, there's a good watch-dog for every good wolf, and we have intelligent and courageous servants. The strictest watchfulness must be established without and within. We will soon know where this miscreant of a captain lives; he will not take a step without being followed by one of our men. He will be very clever and very brave if he accomplishes anything."

"This watchfulness seems to me very necessary, my dear brother."

"Now my carriage is below, let us go to the canon's apartments, and in an hour his niece will be here."

"Never to go out of this house, if it pleases Heaven, my brother, because it is for the eternal happiness of this poor foolish girl."

Two hours after this conversation Senora Dolores Salcedo entered the Convent of Ste. Rosalie.

CHAPTER II.

A few days after the entrance of Senora Dolores Salcedo in the house of Ste. Rosalie, and just at the close of the day, two men were slowly walking along the Boulevard de l'Hopital, one of the most deserted places in Paris.

The younger of these two individuals seemed to be about twenty-five or thirty years old. His face was frank and resolute, his complexion sunburnt, his figure tall and robust, his step decided, and his dress simple and of military severity.

His companion, a little shorter, but unusually square and thick-set, seemed to be about fifty-five years old, and presented that type of the sailor familiar to the eyes of Parisians. An oilcloth hat, low in shape, with a wide brim, placed on the back of his head, revealed a brow ornamented with five or six corkscrew curls, known as heart-catchers, while the rest of his hair was cut very close. This manner of wearing the hair, called the sailor style, was, if traditions are true, quite popular in 1825 among crews of the line sailing from the port of Brest.

A white shirt with a blue collar, embroidered in red, falling over his broad shoulders, permitted a view of the bull like neck of our sailor, whose skin was tanned until it resembled parchment, the colour of brick. A round vest of blue cloth, with buttons marked with an anchor, and wide trousers bound to his hips by a red woollen girdle, completed our man's apparel. Side-whiskers of brown, shaded with fawn colour, encased his square face, which expressed both good humour and decision of character. A superficial observer might have supposed the left cheek of the sailor to be considerably inflamed, but a more attentive examination would have disclosed the fact that an enormous quid of tobacco produced this one-sided tumefaction. Let us add, lastly, that the sailor carried on his back a bag, whose contents seemed quite bulky.

The two men had just reached a place in front of a high wall surrounding a garden. The top of the trees could scarcely be distinguished, for the night had fallen.

The young man said to his companion, as he stopped and turned his ear eastward:

"Sans-Plume, listen."

"Please God, what is it, captain?" said the man with the tobacco quid, in reply to this singular surname.

"I am not mistaken, it is certainly here."

"Yes, captain, it is in this made land between these two large trees. Here is the place where the wall is a little damaged. I noticed it yesterday evening at dusk, when we picked up the stone and the letter."

"That is so. Come quick, my old seaman," said the captain to his sailor, indicating with his eye one of the large trees of the boulevard, several of whose branches hung over the garden wall. "Up, Sans-Plume, while we are waiting the hour let us see if we can rig the thing."

"Captain, there is still a bit of twilight, and I see below a man who is coming this way."

"Then let us wait. Hide first your bag behind the trunk of this tree,—you have forgotten nothing?"

"No, captain, all my rigging is in there."

"Come, then, let us go. This man is coming; we must not look as if we were lying to before these walls."

"That's it, captain, we'll stand upon another tack so as to put him out of his way."

And the two sailors began, as Sans-Plume had said in his picturesque language, to stand the other tack in the path parallel to the public walk, after the sailor had prudently picked up the bag he had hidden between the trees of the boulevard and the wall.

"Sans-Plume," said the young man, as they walked along, "are you sure you recognise the spot where the hackney-coach awaits us?"

"Yes, captain—But, I say, captain."

"What?"

"That man looks as if he were following us."

"Bah!"

"And spying on us."

"Come along, Sans-Plume, you are foolish!"

"Captain, let us set the prow larboard and you go and see."

"So be it," replied the captain.

And, followed by his sailor, he left the walk on the right of the boulevard, crossed the pavement, and took the walk on the left.

"Well, captain," said Sans-Plume, in a low voice, "you see this lascar navigates in our waters."

"That is true, we are followed."

"It is not the first time it has happened to me," said Sans-Plume, with a shade of conceit, hiding one-half of his mouth with the back of his hand in order to eject the excess of tobacco juice produced by the mastication of his enormous quid. "One day, in Senegal, GorÉe, I was followed a whole league, bowsprit on stern, captain, till I came to a plantation of sugar-cane, and—"

"The devil! that man is surely following us," said the captain, interrupting the indiscreet confidences of the sailor. "That annoys me!"

"Captain, do you wish me to drop my bag and flank this lascar with tobacco, in order to teach him to ply to our windward in spite of us?"

"Fine thing! but do you keep still and follow me."

The captain and his sailor, again crossing the pavement, regained the walk on the right.

"See, captain," said Sans-Plume, "he turns tack with us."

"Let him go, and let us watch his steps."

The man who followed the two sailors, a large, jolly-looking fellow in a blue blouse and cap, went beyond them a few steps, then stopped and looked up at the stars, for the night had fully come.

The captain, after saying a few words in a low tone to the sailor who had hidden himself behind the trunk of one of the large trees of the boulevard, advanced alone to meet his disagreeable observer, and said to him:

"Comrade, it is a fine evening."

"Very fine."

"You are waiting for some one here?"

"Yes."

"I, also."

"Ah!"

"Comrade, have you been waiting long?"

"For three hours at least."

"Comrade," replied the captain, after a moment's silence, "would you like to make double the sum they give you for following me and spying me?"

"I do not know what you mean. I do not follow you, sir. I am not spying you."

"Yes."

"No."

"Let us end this. I will give you what you want if you will go on your way,—stop, I have the gold in my pocket."

And the captain tingled the gold in his vest pocket, and said:

"I have twenty-five or thirty louis—"

"Hein!" said the man, with a singularly insinuating manner, "twenty-five or thirty louis?"

At this moment a distant clock sounded half-past seven o'clock. Almost at the same instant a guttural cry, resembling a call or a signal, was heard in the direction that the man in the blouse had first taken to join the two sailors. The spy made a movement as if he understood the significance of this cry, and for a moment seemed undecided.

"Half-past seven o'clock," said the captain to himself. "That beggar there is not alone."

Having made this reflection, he coughed.

Scarcely had the captain coughed, when the spy felt himself seized vigorously at the ankles by some one who had thrown himself suddenly between his legs. He fell backwards, but in falling he had time to cry with a loud voice:

"Here, John, run to the—"

He was not able to finish. Sans-Plume, after having thrown him down, had unceremoniously taken a seat on the breast of the spy, and, holding him by the throat, prevented his speaking.

"The devil! do not strangle him," said the captain, who, kneeling down, was binding securely with his silk handkerchief the two legs of the indiscreet busybody.

"The bag, captain," said Sans-Plume, keeping his grip on the throat of the spy, "the bag! it is large enough to wrap his head and arms; we will bind him tight around the loins and he will not budge any more than a roll of old canvas."

No sooner said than done. In a few seconds the spy, cowled like a monk in the bag to the middle of his body, with his legs bound, found himself unable to move. Sans-Plume had the courtesy to push his victim into one of the wide verdant slopes which separated the trees, and nothing more was heard from that quarter but an interrupted series of smothered bellowings.

"The alarm will be given at the convent! Half-past seven has just struck," said the captain to his sailor. "We must risk all now or all is lost!"

"In twice three movements the thing is ready, captain," replied Sans-Plume, running with his companion toward the large trees which hung over the wall near which they had at first stood.

CHAPTER III.

While these events were transpiring on the boulevard, and a little before half after seven had sounded, another scene was taking place in the interior of the convent garden. Sister Prudence, the mother superior, and Dolores Salcedo were walking in the garden, notwithstanding the advanced hour of the evening.

Dolores, a brunette of charming appearance, united in herself the rare and bewitching perfections of Spanish beauty. Hair of a blue black, which, when uncoiled, dragged upon the floor; a pale complexion warmed by the sun of the South; large eyes, by turns full of fire and languid sweetness; a little mouth as red as the bud of the pomegranate steeped in dew; a delicate and voluptuous form, tapering fingers, and an Andalusian foot and ankle, completed her list of charms. As to the exquisite grace of her figure and gait, one must, to have any idea of it, have seen the undulating movements of the beautiful senoras of Seville or Cadiz, when, speaking with their eyes or playing with their fans, they slowly promenade, a beautiful summer evening, on the marble floor of the Alameda.

Dolores accompanied Sister Prudence. Walking and talking, the two women approached the wall behind which Captain Horace and his sailor had stopped.

"You see, my dear daughter," said the mother superior to Dolores, "I grant you all you desire, and, although the rules of the house forbid promenades in the garden after nightfall, I have consented to stay here until half-past seven o'clock, our supper hour, which will soon sound."

"I thank you, madame," said Dolores, with a slight Spanish accent, and in a voice deliciously resonant. "I feel that this promenade will do me good."

"You must call me mother and not madame, my dear daughter, I have already told you that it is the custom here."

"I will conform to it, if I can, madame."

"Again!"

"It is difficult to call a person mother who is not your mother," said Dolores, with a sigh.

"I am your spiritual mother, my dear daughter; your mother in God, as you are, as you will be, my daughter in God; because you will leave us no more, you will renounce the deceitful pleasures of a perverse and corrupt world, you will have here a heavenly foretaste of eternal peace."

"I begin to discover it, madame."

"You will live in prayer, silence, and meditation."

"I have no other desire, madame."

"Well, well, my dear daughter, after all, what will you sacrifice?"

"Oh, nothing, absolutely nothing!"

"I like that response, my dear daughter; really, it is nothing, less than nothing, these wicked and worldly passions which cause us so much sorrow and throw us in the way of perdition."

"Just Heaven! it makes me tremble to think of it, madame."

"The Lord inspires you to answer thus, my dear daughter, and I am sure now that you can hardly understand how you have been able to love this miscreant captain."

"It is true, madame, I was stupid enough to dream of happiness and the joys of family affection; criminal enough to find this happiness in mutual love and hope to become, like many others, a devoted wife and tender mother; it was, as you have told me, an offence to Heaven. I repent my impious vows, I comprehend all that is odious in them; you must pardon me, madame, for having been wicked and silly to such a degree."

"It is not necessary to exaggerate, my dear daughter," said Sister Prudence, struck with the slightly ironical accent with which Dolores had uttered these last words. "But," added she, observing the direction taken by the young girl, "what is the good of returning to this walk? It will soon be the hour for supper; come, my dear daughter, let us go back to the house."

"Oh, madame, do you not perceive that sweet odour on this side of the grove?"

"Those are a few clusters of mignonette. But come, it is getting cool; I am not sixteen like you, my dear daughter, and I am afraid of catching cold."

"Just one moment, please, that I may gather a few of these flowers."

"Go on, then, you must do everything you wish, my dear daughter; stop, the night is clear enough for you to see this mignonette ten steps away; go and gather a few sprigs and return."

Dolores, letting go the arm of the mother superior, went rapidly toward the clusters of flowers.

At this moment half-past seven o'clock sounded.

"Half-past seven," murmured Dolores, trembling and turning her ear to listen, "he is there, he will come!"

"My dear daughter, it is the hour for supper," said the mother superior, walking on ahead of the canon's niece. "Stop, do you not hear the clock? Quick! quick! come, it will take ten minutes to reach the house, for we are at the bottom of the garden."

"Here I am, madame," replied the young girl, running before the mother superior, who said to her, with affected sweetness:

"Oh, you foolish little thing, you run like a frightened fawn."

Suddenly Dolores shrieked, and fell on her knees.

"Great God!" cried Sister Prudence, running up to her, "what is the matter, dear daughter? Why did you scream? What are you on your knees for?"

"Ah, madame!"

"But what is it?"

"What pain!"

"Where?"

"In my foot, madame, I have sprained my ankle. Oh, how I suffer! My God, how I suffer!"

"Try to get up, my dear child," said the mother, approaching Dolores with a vague distrust, for this sprain seemed to her quite unnatural.

"Oh, impossible, madame, I cannot make a movement."

"But try, at least."

"I wish I could."

And the young girl made a show of wishing to stand up, but she fell again on her knees, with a shriek that could be heard on the other side of the garden wall.

Then Dolores said, with a groan:

"You see, madame, it is impossible for me to move. I pray you return to the house, and tell some one to come for me with a chair or a litter. Oh, how I suffer! My God, how I suffer! For pity's sake, madame, go back quick to the house; it is so far, I shall never be able to drag myself there."

"Mademoiselle," cried the mother superior, "I am not your dupe! You have no more of a sprain than I have, it is an abominable falsehood! You wish, I know not for what reason, to send me away, and remain alone in the garden. Ah, indeed you make me repent of my condescension."

The light noise of a few pebbles falling across the boughs of the trees attracted the attention of the mother superior and Dolores, who, radiant with delight, leaped up with a bound, exclaiming:

"There he is!"

"Of whom are you speaking, unhappy girl?"

"Of Captain Horace, madame," said Dolores, curtseying with mock reverence. "He is coming to carry me away."

"What impudence! Ah, you think that in spite of me—"

"We are at the bottom of the garden, madame; cry, call, nobody will hear you."

"Oh, what horrible treason!" cried the mother superior. "But it is impossible! The men on guard have not dared leave the boulevard since nightfall."

"Horatio!" cried Dolores, in a clear, silvery voice. "My Horatio!"

"Shameless creature!" cried Sister Prudence, in desperation, rushing forward to seize Dolores by the arm. But the Spanish girl, nimble as a gazelle, with two bounds was out of the reach of Sister Prudence, whose limbs, stiffened by age, refused to lend themselves to gymnastic exercise; and already overcome, she cried, wringing her hands:

"Oh, those miserable patrols! They have not been on guard. I would cry, but they would not hear me at the convent. To run there is to leave this wretched girl here alone! Ah, I understand too late why this serpent wished to prolong our walk."

"Horatio," cried Dolores a second time, holding herself at a distance from the mother superior, "my dear Horatio!"

"Descend!" cried a ringing male voice which seemed to come from the sky.

This celestial voice was no other than that of Captain Horace, giving the signal to his faithful Sans-Plume to descend something.

The mother superior and Dolores, notwithstanding the difference of the emotions which agitated them, raised their eyes simultaneously when they heard the voice of Captain Horace.

But let us recall the situation of the walk and garden in order to explain the miracle about to be manifested to the sight of the recluse.

Two of the largest branches of the trees on the boulevard outside extended like a gibbet, so to speak, above and beyond the coping of the convent wall. The night was so clear that Dolores and the mother superior saw, slowly descending, sustained by cords, an Indian hammock in the bottom of which Captain Horace was extended, throwing with his hand a shower of kisses to Dolores.

When the hammock was within two feet of the earth, the captain called, in a ringing voice: "Stop!"

The hammock rested motionless. The captain leaped out of it, and said to the young girl:

"Quick, we have not a moment to lose! Dear Dolores, get into this hammock at once and do not be afraid."

"You will kill me first, villain!" cried the mother superior, throwing herself upon the young girl, whom she held within her arms, at the same time crying out, "Help! help!"

At this moment lights could be seen coming and going at a distance from the bottom of the garden.

"Here comes somebody at last!" screamed Sister Prudence, redoubling her cries of "Help! help!"

"Madame," said the captain, "let loose Dolores immediately!" And he forcibly withdrew the young girl from the obstinate embrace, holding Sister Prudence until Dolores could spring into the hammock. Seeing her safely seated there, the captain called:

"Ho there! Hoist."

And the hammock rose rapidly, so light was the weight of the young girl.

Sister Prudence, thoroughly enraged, and thinking that help would come perhaps too late, for the lights were still distant, screamed louder than ever, and threw herself on the hammock, to hold it down; but the captain drew her arm familiarly within his own, and, in spite of her struggles, held her like a vice.

"Dolores," said the captain, "do not be afraid, my love. When you reach the large branches, yield yourself without fear to the motion which will draw the hammock outside the wall. Sans-Plume is on the other side, and he is watching everything. Tell him, as soon as you reach the earth, to throw me the knotted rope, and hold it well on the outside."

"Yes, my Horatio," said Dolores, who was already eight or ten feet above the earth; "be calm, our love doubles my courage."

And the young mocker, leaning out of the hammock, said, with a laugh;

"Good evening, Sister Prudence, good evening!"

"You will be damned, accursed creature," said the mother superior.

"But you, you wretch! you shall not escape me," added she, holding on with desperate and convulsive anger to the captain's arm.

"They are coming, and you will be taken."

In fact, the lights were becoming more and more visible, and the captain could distinctly hear the voices of persons calling:

"Sister Prudence! Sister Prudence!"

The arrival of this aid increased the strength of the mother superior, who still clinched the arm of Horace. She was beginning to embarrass the sailor quite seriously; he could not resort to violence to escape this aged woman. In the meanwhile, the lights and the voices came nearer and nearer, and Sans-Plume, occupied, no doubt, in assuring the safe descent of Dolores on the other side of the wall, had not yet thrown the rope, his only means of flight. Then wishing, at any cost, to extricate himself from the grasp of the sister, the captain said to her:

"I pray you, madame, release me."

"Never, villain. Help, help!"

"Then pardon me, madame, because you force me to it. I am going to dance with you an infernal waltz, a riotous polka."

"A polka with me! You dare!"

"Come, madame, since you insist upon it we must. Keep time to the air. Tra, la, la, la."

And joining the act to the words, the merry sailor passed the arm that was free around the bony waist of Sister Prudence, and carried her with him, singing his refrain and whirling her around with such rapidity that, at the end of a few seconds, bewildered, dizzy, and suffocated, she could only gasp the syllables:

"Ah, help—help—you—wretch! He—takes—my—breath! Help—help!"

And soon overcome by the rapid whirling, Sister Prudence felt her strength failing. The captain saw her about to faint on his arms, and only had time to lay her gently on the grass.

"Ho!" at this moment cried Sans-Plume on the other side of the wall, as he threw over the knotted rope to the captain.

"The devil, it is high time!" said the captain, rushing after the rope, for the lights and the persons who carried them were no more than fifty steps distant.

Armed with pitchforks and guns, they approached the mother superior, who had recovered sufficiently to point over the wall as she said:

"There he is getting away!"

One of the men, armed with a gun, guided by her gesture, saw the captain, who, thanks to his agility as a sailor, had just gained the crest of the wall.

The man fired his gun, but missed his aim.

"You! You!" cried he to another man armed like himself. "There he is on the top of the wall reaching for the branches of that tree,—fire!"

The second shot was fired just at the moment when Captain Horace, astride one of the branches projecting over the garden, was approaching the trunk of the tree, by means of which he meant to descend on the outside. Scarcely had the second shot been fired, when Horace made a sudden leap, stopped a moment, and then disappeared in the thick foliage of the trees.

"Run! run outside!" cried Sister Prudence, still panting for breath. "There is still time to catch them!"

The orders of the mother superior were executed, but when they arrived on the boulevard outside, Dolores, the captain, and Sans-Plume had disappeared. They found nothing but the hammock, which was lying a few steps from the spy, who, enveloped in his bag, dolefully uttering smothered groans at the bottom of the ditch.

CHAPTER IV.

Eight days after the abduction of Dolores Salcedo by Captain Horace, AbbÉ Ledoux, in bed, received the visit of his physician.

The invalid, lying in a soft bed standing in the alcove of a comfortable apartment, had always a fat and ruddy face; his triple chin descended to the collar of a fine shirt made of Holland cloth, and the purple brilliancy of the holy man's complexion contrasted with the immaculate whiteness of his cotton cap, bound, according to the ancient custom, with an orange-coloured ribbon. Notwithstanding these indications of plethoric health, the abbÉ, his head propped on his pillow in a doleful manner, uttered from time to time the most plaintive groans, while his hand, small and effeminate, was given to his physician, who was gravely feeling his pulse.

Doctor Gasterini,—such was the name of the physician,—although seventy-five years old, did not look sixty. Tall and erect, as well as lean and nervous, with a clear complexion and rosy lips, the doctor, when he smiled with his pleasant, elegant air, disclosed thirty-two teeth of irreproachable whiteness, which seemed to combine the polish of ivory with the sharp durability of steel; a forest of white hair, naturally curled, encircled the amiable and intelligent face of the doctor. Dressed always in black, with a certain affectation, he remained faithful to the tradition of small-clothes made of silk cloth, with shoe buckles of gold, and silk stockings, which clearly delineated his strong, sinewy legs.

Doctor Gasterini was holding delicately between his thumb and his index finger—whose rosy polished nails might have been the envy of a pretty woman—the wrist of his patient, who religiously awaited the decision of his physician.

"My dear abbÉ," said the doctor, "you are not at all sick."

"But, doctor—"

"You have a soft, pliant skin, and sixty-five pulsations to the minute. It would be impossible to find conditions of better health."

"But, again, doctor, I—"

"But, again, abbÉ, you are not sick. I am a good judge, perhaps."

"And I tell you, doctor, that I have not closed my eyes the whole night. Madame Siboulet, my housekeeper, has been on her feet constantly,—she gave me several times some drops made by the good sisters."

"Stuff!"

"And orange flower distilled at the Sacred Heart."

"The devil!"

"Yes, doctor, you may laugh; none of these remedies have given me relief. I have done nothing but turn over and over all night long in my bed. Alas, alas! I am not well. I have an excitement, an insupportable weariness."

"Perhaps, my dear abbÉ, you experienced yesterday some annoyance, some contradiction, and as you are very obstinate, very conceited, very spiteful—"

"I?"

"You."

"Doctor, I assure you—"

"This annoyance, I tell you, might have put you in a diabolical humour; for I know no remedy which can prevent these vexations. As to being ill, or even indisposed, you are not the least so in the world, my dear abbÉ."

"Then why did I ask you to come to see me this morning?"

"You ought to know that better than I, my dear abbÉ; nevertheless, I suspect the unusual motive which has made you desire my visit."

"That is rather hard."

"No, not very hard, for we are old acquaintances, and I know all your tricks, my dear abbÉ."

"My tricks!—you know my tricks?"

"You contrive excellent ones, sometimes,—but to return to our subject, I believe that, under a pretext of sickness which really does not exist, you have sent for me to learn from me, directly or indirectly, something which is of interest to you."

"Come, doctor, that is rather a disagreeable pleasantry."

"Wait, my dear abbÉ. In my youth I was physician to the Duke d'Otrante, when he was minister of police. He enjoyed, like you, perfect health, yet there was scarcely a day that he did not exact a visit from me. I was unsophisticated then, and, although well equipped in my profession, I had need of patrons, so, notwithstanding my visits to his Excellency seemed unnecessary, I went to his house regularly every day, about the hour he made his toilet, and we conversed. The minister was very inquisitive, and as I was professionally thrown with persons of all conditions, he, with charming good nature, plied me with questions concerning my patients. I responded with all the sincerity of my soul. One day I arrived, as I have told you, at the minister's house, when he had just completed his toilet, the very moment when a journeyman barber, the most uncleanly-looking knave I had ever seen in my life, had finished shaving him.

"'M. duke,' said I to the minister, after the barber had departed, 'how is it that, instead of being shaved by one of your valets, you prefer the services of these frightful journeyman barbers whom you change almost every fortnight?'

"'My dear,' replied the duke in a confidential tone, "'you cannot imagine how much one can learn about all sorts of people and things, when one knows how to set such fellows as that prattling.' Was this confession an amusement or a blunder on the part of this great man, or, rather, did he think me too silly to comprehend the full significance of his words? I do not know; but I do know that this avowal enlightened me as to the real intention of his Excellency in having me chat with him so freely every morning. After that, I responded with much circumspection to the questions of the cunning chief, who knew so well how to put in practice the transcendent maxim, 'The best spies are those who are spies without knowing it.'"

"The anecdote is interesting, as are all that you tell, my dear doctor," replied the abbÉ, with repressed anger, "but I swear to you that your allusion is entirely inapplicable, and that, alas! I am very sick."

"Forty years yet of such illness, and you will become a centenarian, my dear abbÉ," said the doctor, rising and preparing to take his leave.

"Oh, what a man! what a man!" cried the abbÉ. "Do listen to me, doctor, you have a heart of bronze; can you abandon a poor sick man in this manner? Give me five minutes!"

"So be it; let us chat if you wish it, my dear abbÉ. I have a quarter of an hour at your disposal; you are a man of mind, I cannot better employ the time given to this visit."

"Ah, doctor, you are cruel!"

"If you wish a more agreeable physician, address some others of my fraternity. You will find them eager to give their attention to the celebrated preacher, AbbÉ Ledoux, the most fashionable director of the Faubourg St. Germain—for, in spite of the Republic, or, for reason of the Republic, there is more than ever a Faubourg St. Germain, and, under every possible administration, the protection of AbbÉ Ledoux would be a lofty one."

"No, doctor, I want no other physician than you, terrible man that you are! Just see the confidence you inspire in me. It seems to me your presence has already done me good,—it calms me."

"Poor dear abbÉ, what confidence! It is touching; that certainly proves that it is only faith which saves."

"Do not speak of faith," said the abbÉ, affecting anger pleasantly. "Be silent, you pagan, materialist, atheist, republican, for you are and have been all, at your pleasure."

"Oh, oh, abbÉ, what an array of fine words!"

"You deserve them, wicked man; you will be damned, do you hear?—more than damned!"

"God may will it that we may meet each other some day, my poor abbÉ."

"I, damned?"

"Eh, eh."

"Do I abandon myself as you do to the brutality of all my appetites? Go,—you are a perfect Sardanapalus!"

"Flatterer! but then it is your manner. You reproach an old Lovelace for the enormities of which he would like to be guilty, and in the meantime you know that he has none of them; but it is all the same, your reproaches delight him, they render him cheerful; then he confesses all sorts of sins, of which, alas! he is incapable, poor man, and you have the air of giving a last pretext to his decaying imbecility."

"Fie! fie! doctor, the serpent had no more malignity than you."

"You reproach the broken-down politician, the powerless man of state, not less furiously, for his dark intrigues to overthrow the political world,—Europe, perhaps. Then with what unction the poor man relishes your reproaches! Everybody flies him like a pest when he opens his mouth to bore them with his politics; but what good fortune for him to unveil to you his Machiavellian projects for the advantage of the destinies of Europe, and to find a patient listener to the ravings of his old age."

"Yes, yes, jest, jeer, ridicule, you rascally doctor! You wish to excuse yourself by reviling others."

"Let us see, abbÉ, let us make an examination of conscience. Our professions will be inverted; I, the physician for the body, am going to ask a consultation with you, the physician for the soul."

"And you will have precious need of this consultation."

"Of what do you accuse me, abbÉ?"

"In the first place, you are a glutton, like Vitellius, Lucullus, the Prince of Soubise, Talleyrand, D'Aigrefeuille, CambacÉrÈs, and Brillat-Savarin all together."

"A flatterer always! You reproach me for my only great and lofty quality."

"Ah, come now, doctor, do you take me for an oyster with your frivolous talk?"

"Take you for an oyster? How conceited you are! Unfortunately, I cannot make a comparison so advantageous to you, abbÉ. It would be a heresy, an anachronism. Good oysters (and others are not counted as existing) do not give the right to discuss them until about the middle of November, and we are by no means there."

"This, doctor, may be very witty, but it does not convince me in the least that gluttony is, in you or any other person, a quality."

"I will convince you of it."

"You?"

"I, my dear abbÉ."

"That would be rather difficult. And how?"

"Give me your evening on the twentieth of November and I will prove that—"

But interrupting himself, the doctor added:

"Come now, my dear abbÉ, what are you constantly looking at there by the side of that door?"

The holy man, thus taken unawares, blushed to his ears, for he had listened to the doctor with distraction, impatiently turning his eyes toward the door as if he expected a person who had not arrived; but after the first moment of surprise the abbÉ did not seem disconcerted, and replied:

"What door do you speak of, doctor? I do not know what you mean."

"I mean that you frequently look on this side as if you expected the appearance of some one."

"There is no one in the world, dear doctor, except you, who could have such ideas. I was entirely absorbed in your sophistical but intelligent conversation."

"Ah, abbÉ, abbÉ, you overwhelm me!"

"You wish, in a word, doctor, to prove to me that gluttony is a noble, sublime passion, do you not?"

"Sublime, abbÉ, that is the word, sublime,—if not in itself at least in its consequences; above all, in the interest of agriculture and commerce."

"Come, doctor, that is a paradox. Agriculture and commerce are sustained as other things are."

"It is not a paradox, it is a fact, yes, a fact, and if it is demonstrated to you positively, mathematically, practically, and economically, what can you say? Will you still doubt it?"

"I will doubt, or rather I will believe this abomination less than ever."

"How, in spite of evidence, abbÉ?"

"Because of evidence, if so be that this evidence can ever exist, for it is by just such means of these pretended evidences, these perfidious appearances, that the bad spirit leads us into the most dangerous snares."

"What, abbÉ, the devil! I am not a seminarian whom you are preparing to take the bands. You are a man of mind and of knowledge. When I talk reason to you, talk reason to me, and not of the devil and his horns."

"But, pagan, idolater that you are, do you not know that gluttony is perhaps the most abominable of the seven capital sins?"

"In the first place, abbÉ, I pray you do not calumninate like that the seven capital sins, but speak of them with the deference which is their due. I have found them profoundly respected in general and in particular."

"Indeed, it is not only gluttony that he glorifies,—he pushes his paradox to the glorification of the seven capital sins!"

"Yes, dear abbÉ, all the seven, considered from a certain point of view."

"That is monomania."

"Will you be convinced, abbÉ?"

"Of what?"

"Of the possible excellence,—of the conditional existence of the worldly and philosophical excellence of the seven capital sins."

"Really, doctor, do you take me for a child?"

"Give me your evening on the twentieth of November; you will be convinced."

"Come now, doctor, why always the twentieth of November?"

"That is for me a prophetic day, and more, it is the anniversary of my birth, my dear abbÉ, so give me your evening on that day and you will not regret having come."

"Very well, then, the twentieth of November, if my health—"

"Permits you,—well understood, my dear abbÉ; but my experience tells me that you will be able to drag yourself to see me on that day."

"What a man. He is capable of giving me a perfect example, in his big own damned person, of the seven capital sins."

At this moment the door opened.

It was on this door, more than once, that the glances of AbbÉ Ledoux had been turned with secret and growing impatience, during his conversation with the doctor.

CHAPTER V.

The abbÉ's housekeeper, having entered the chamber, handed a letter to her master, and, exchanging with him a look of intelligence, said:

"It is very urgent, M. abbÉ."

"Permit me, doctor?" said the holy man, before breaking the seal of the letter he held in his hand.

"At your convenience, my dear abbÉ," replied the doctor, rising from his seat; "I must leave you now."

"I pray you, just a word!" cried the abbÉ, who seemed especially anxious that the doctor should not depart so soon. "Give me time to glance over this letter, and I am at your service."

"But, abbÉ, we have nothing more to say to each other. I have an urgent consultation, and the hour is—"

"I implore you, doctor," insisted the abbÉ, breaking the seal and running his eyes over the letter he had just received, "in the name of Heaven, give me only five minutes, not more."

Surprised at this singular persistence on the part of the abbÉ, the doctor hesitated to go out, when the invalid, discontinuing his reading of the letter, raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed:

"Ah, my God, my God!"

"What is the matter?"

"Ah, my poor doctor!"

"Finish what you have to say."

"Ah, doctor, it was Providence that sent you here."

"Providence!"

"Yes, because I find it in my power to render you a great service, perhaps."

The physician appeared to be a little doubtful of the good-will of AbbÉ Ledoux, and accepted his words not without a secret distrust.

"Let us see, my dear abbÉ," replied he, "what service can you render me?"

"You have sometimes spoken to me of your sister's numerous children, whom you have raised (notwithstanding your faults, wicked man) with paternal tenderness, after the early death of their parents."

"Go on, abbÉ," said the doctor, fixing a penetrating gaze on the saintly man, "go on."

"I was altogether ignorant that one of your nephews served in the navy, and had been made captain. His name is Horace BrÉmont, is it not?"

At the name of Horace, the doctor started, imperceptibly; his gaze seemed to penetrate to the depth of the abbÉ's heart, and he replied, coldly:

"I have a nephew who is captain in the navy and his name is Horace."

"And he is now in Paris?"

"Or elsewhere, abbÉ."

"For God's sake, let us talk seriously, my dear doctor, the time is precious. See here what has been written to me and you will judge of the importance of the letter.

"'M. AbbÉ:—I know that you are very intimate with the celebrated Doctor Gasterini; you can render him a great service. His nephew, Captain Horace, is compromised in a very disagreeable affair; although he has succeeded in hiding himself up to this time, his retreat has been discovered and perhaps, at the moment that I am writing to you, his person has been seized.'"

The abbÉ stopped and looked attentively at the doctor.

The doctor remained impassible.

Surprised at this indifference, the abbÉ said, in a pathetic tone:

"Ah, my poor doctor, what cruel suffering for you! But what has this unfortunate captain done?"

"I know nothing about it, abbÉ, continue."

Evidently the saintly man expected another result of the reading of his letter. However, not allowing himself to be disconcerted, he continued:

"'Perhaps at this moment his person has been seized,'" repeated he, laying stress on these words, and going on with the letter. "'But there remains one chance of saving this young man who is more thoughtless than culpable; you must, upon the reception of this letter, send some one immediately to Doctor Gasterini.'"

And, stopping again, the abbÉ added:

"As I told you, doctor, Providence sent you here."

"It has never done anything else for my sake," coldly replied the doctor. "Go on, abbÉ."

"'You must, upon the reception of this letter, send immediately to Doctor Gasterini,'" repeated the abbÉ, more and more surprised at the impassibility of the physician, and his indifference to the misfortune which threatened his nephew. "'The doctor must send some person in whom he has confidence, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat. Perhaps in this way he may get the start of the officers about to arrest this unfortunate young man.'

"I need not say more to you, my dear doctor," hastily added the abbÉ, throwing the letter on the bed. "A minute's delay may lose all. Run, quick, save this unhappy young man! What! You do not move; you do not reply! What are you thinking of, my poor doctor? Why do you look at me with such a strange expression? Did you not hear what has been written to me? And it is underlined, too. 'He must go instantly, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat.' Really, doctor, I do not understand you."

"But I understand you perfectly, my dear abbÉ," said the doctor, with sardonic calmness. "But, upon honour, this expedient is really not up to the height of your usual inventions; you have done better than that, abbÉ, much better."

"An expedient! My inventions!" replied the abbÉ, feigning amazement. "Come, doctor, you surely are not speaking seriously?"

"You have forgotten, dear abbÉ, that an old fox like me discovers a snare from afar."

"Doctor," replied the abbÉ, no longer able to conceal his violent anger, "you are at liberty to jest,—at liberty to let the time pass, and lose the opportunity of saving your nephew. I have warned you as a friend. Now, do as you please, I wash my hands of it."

"So then, my dear abbÉ, you were and you are in the plot of those sanctimonious persons who desired to make a nun of Dolores Salcedo, for the purpose of getting possession of the property she would one day inherit from her uncle, the canon?"

"Dolores Salcedo! Her uncle, the canon! Really, doctor, I do not know what you mean."

"Ah! ah! you are in that pious plot! It is well to know it; it is always useful to recognise your adversaries, above all, when they are as clever as you are, dear abbÉ."

"But, hear me, doctor, I swear to you—"

"Stop, abbÉ, let us play an open game. You sent for me this morning, that the pathetic epistle you have just read to me might arrive in my presence."

"Doctor!" cried the abbÉ, "that is carrying distrust, suspicion, to a point which becomes—which becomes—permit me to say it to you—"

"Oh, by all means,—I permit you."

"Well, which becomes outrageous in the last degree, doctor. Ah, truly," added the abbÉ, with bitterness, "I was far from expecting that my eagerness to do you a kindness would be rewarded in such a manner."

"Zounds! I know very well, my poor abbÉ, that you hoped your ingenious stratagem would have an entirely different result."

"Doctor, this is too much!"

"No, abbÉ, it is not enough. Now, listen to me. This is what you hoped, I say, from your ingenious stratagem: Frightened by the danger to which my nephew was exposed, I would thank you effusively for the means you offered me to save him, and would fly like an arrow to warn this poor fellow to leave his place of concealment."

"So, in fact, any other person in your place, doctor, would have done, but you take care not to act so reasonably. Surely, to speak the truth, you must be struck with frenzy and blindness."

"Alas! abbÉ, it is the beginning of the punishment for my sins. But let us return to the consequences of your ingenious stratagem. According to your hope, then, I would fly like an arrow to save, as you advise, my nephew. My carriage is below. I would get in it, and have myself conveyed as rapidly as possible to the mysterious retreat of Captain Horace."

"Eh, without doubt, doctor, that is what you should have done some time ago."

"Now, do you know what would have happened, my poor abbÉ?"

"You would have saved your nephew."

"I would have lost him, I would have betrayed him, I would have delivered him to his enemies,—and see how. I wager that at this very hour, while I am talking to you, there is, not far from here in the street, and even in sight of this house, a cab, to which a strong horse is hitched, and by a strange chance (unless you countermand your order) this cab would follow my carriage wherever it might go."

The abbÉ turned scarlet, but replied:

"I do not know what cab you are speaking of, doctor."

"In other words, my dear abbÉ, you have been seeking traces of my nephew in vain. In order to discover his retreat, you have had me followed in vain. Now, you hoped, by the sudden announcement of the danger he was running, to push me to the extremity of warning the captain. Your emissary below would have followed my carriage, so that, without knowing it, I, myself, would have disclosed the secret of my nephew's hiding-place. Again, abbÉ, for any other than yourself, the invention was not a bad one, but you have accustomed your admirers—and permit me to include myself among them—to higher and bolder conceptions. Let us hope, then, that another time you will show yourself more worthy of yourself. Good-bye, and without bearing you any grudge, my dear abbÉ, I count on you for our pleasant evening the twentieth of November. Otherwise, I will come to remind you of your promise. Good-bye, again, my poor, dear abbÉ. Come, do not look so vexed,—so out of countenance; console yourself for this little defeat by recalling your past triumphs."

And with this derisive conclusion to his remarks, Doctor Gasterini left AbbÉ Ledoux.

"You sing victory, old serpent!" cried the abbÉ, purple with anger and shaking his fist at the door by which the doctor went out. "You are very arrogant, but you do not know that this morning even we have recaptured Dolores Salcedo, and your miserable nephew shall not escape us, for I am as cunning as you are, infernal doctor, and, as you say, I have more than one trick in my bag."

The doctor, the subject of this imprecatory monologue, had concealed the disquietude he felt by the discovery he had just made. He knew AbbÉ Ledoux capable of taking a brilliant revenge, so as he descended the steps of the saintly man's house, the doctor, before entering his carriage, looked cautiously on both sides of the street. As he expected, he saw a public cab about twenty steps from where he was standing. In this cab was a large man, wearing a brown overcoat. Walking up to the cab, the doctor, with a confidential air, said in a low voice to the large man:

"My friend, you are posted there, are you not, to follow this open carriage with two horses, standing before the door, Number 17?"

"Sir," said the man, hesitating, "I do not know who you are, or why you—"

"Hush! my friend," replied the doctor, in a tone full of mystery, "I have just left AbbÉ Ledoux; the order of proceeding is changed; the abbÉ expects you at once, to give you new orders,—quick, go, go!"

The fat man, reassured by the explicit directions given by the doctor, hesitated no longer, descended from his cab, and went in haste to see the AbbÉ Ledoux. When the doctor saw the door close upon the emissary of the abbÉ, feeling certain that he was not followed, he ordered his coachman to drive in haste to the Faubourg PoissonniÈre, for if he feared nothing for his nephew, he had reason enough for uneasiness since he had learned that AbbÉ Ledoux was concerned in this intrigue.

The doctor's carriage had just entered one of the less frequented streets of the Faubourg PoissonniÈre, not far from the gate of the same name, when he perceived at a short distance quite a large assemblage in front of a modest-looking house. The doctor ordered his carriage to stop, descended from it, mingled with the crowd, and said to one of the men:

"What is the matter there, sir?"

"It seems, sir, they are taking back a stray dove to the dove-cote."

"A dove!"

"Yes, or if you like it better, a young girl who escaped from a convent. The commissary of police arrived with his deputies, and a very fat man in a blue overcoat, who looked like a priest. He had the house opened. The fugitive was found there, and put into a carriage with the fat man in a blue overcoat. I have never seen any citizen ornamented with such a stomach."

Doctor Gasterini did not wait to hear more, but rushed through the crowd and imperatively rang the bell at the door of the little house of which we have spoken. A young servant, still pale with emotion, came to open it.

"Where is Madame Dupont?" asked the physician, impatiently.

"She is at home, sir. Oh, sir, if you only knew!"

The doctor made no reply; went through two apartments, and entered a bedchamber, where he found an aged woman, with a venerable-looking face full of sweetness.

"Ah, doctor, doctor!" cried Madame Dupont, bursting into tears, "what a misfortune, what a scandal, poor young girl!"

"I am grieved, my poor Madame Dupont, that the service you rendered me should have been followed by such disagreeable consequences."

"Oh, do not think it is that which afflicts, doctor. I owe you more than my life, since I owe you the life of my son; I do not think of complaining of a transient vexation, and I know you too well, in other things, to raise the least doubt as to the intentions which led you to ask me to give a temporary asylum to this young girl."

"By this time, my dear Madame Dupont, I can and I ought to tell you all. Here is the whole story in two words: I have a nephew, an indiscreet boy, but the bravest fellow in the world; he is captain in the marine service. In his last voyage from Cadiz to Bordeaux he took as passengers a Spanish canon and his niece. My nephew fell desperately in love with the niece, but by a series of events too long and too ridiculous to relate to you, the canon took the greatest aversion to my nephew, and informed him that he should never marry Dolores. The opposition exasperated the lovers; my devil of a nephew followed the canon to Paris, discovered the convent where the uncle had placed the young girl, put himself in correspondence with her, and eloped with her. Horace—that is his name—is an honest fellow, and, the elopement accomplished, he introduced Dolores to me and confessed all to me. While the marriage was pending, he besought me to place this young girl in a suitable house, since, for a thousand reasons, it was impossible for me to keep the child in my house after such an uproar. Then I thought of you, my good Madame Dupont."

"Ah, sir, I was certain that you acted nobly in that as you have always, and, besides, the short time that she was here Mlle. Dolores interested me exceedingly,—indeed I was already attached to her, and you can judge of my distress this morning when—"

"The commissary of police ordered the house to be opened; I know it. And the canon, Dom DiÉgo, accompanied him."

"Yes, sir, he was furious; he declared that he was acquainted with the French law; that it would not permit such things; that it was abduction of a minor, and that they were searching on all sides for your nephew."

"That is what I expected, and I exacted from my nephew, not only that he would not see Dolores again until all was arranged, but that he would keep himself concealed in order to escape the pursuit which I hoped to quiet. Now I do not know if I can succeed; the situation is grave. I have told Horace so, but the deed was done, and I confess I revolted against the thought of placing this poor Dolores myself in the hands of the canon, a kind of gluttonous, superstitious brute, from whom there is nothing to hope."

"Ah, doctor, I am now well enough acquainted with Mlle. Dolores to be sure that she will die of grief if she is left in that convent, and believe me, sir, in the scene of this morning, that which most distresses me is not the scandal of which my poor house has been the theatre, but the thought of the sad future which is perhaps reserved for that unhappy child. And now that I know all, doctor, I am all the more troubled in thinking of the grave consequences that this abduction may entail upon your nephew."

"I share your fears most keenly, my dear Madame Dupont. After a discovery that I have this morning made, I am afraid that a complaint has already been instituted against Horace; if it has not been it will be, to-day perhaps, for now that Dolores is again in the power of her uncle, if he can have my nephew arrested he will have nothing to fear from his love for Dolores. Ah, this arrest would be dreadful! Law is inflexible. My nephew went by night to a convent and abducted a minor. It is liable to infamous punishment, and for him that would be worse than death!"

"Great God!"

"And his brothers and sisters who love him so much! What sorrow for me,—for our family!" added the old man, with sadness.

"But, sir, there ought to be something we can do to put a stop to this pursuit."

"Ah, madame, dear Madame Dupont," replied the doctor, overcome with emotion, "I lose my head when I think of the terrible consequences which may result from this foolish adventure of a young man."

"But what shall we do, doctor, what shall we do?"

"Ah, do I know myself what to do, my poor Madame Dupont? I am going to reflect on the best course to pursue, but I am dealing with such a powerful adversary that I dare not hope for success." And Doctor Gasterini left the Faubourg PoissonniÈre in a state of inexpressible anxiety.

CHAPTER VI.

The day after Dolores Salcedo had been taken back to the convent, the following scene took place in the home of the canon, Dom DiÉgo, who lodged in a comfortable apartment engaged for him before his arrival by AbbÉ Ledoux.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning.

Dom DiÉgo, reclining in a large armchair, seemed to be assailed by gloomy thoughts. He was a large man of fifty years, and of enormous obesity; his fat, bloated cheeks mingled with his quadruple chin, his dingy skin was rough and flabby, and revealed the weakness of the inert mass. His features were not wanting in a kind of good-humour, when they were not under the domination of some disagreeable idea. His large mouth and thick, hanging under-lip denoted sensuality. With half-closed eyes under his heavy gray eyebrows, and hands crossed upon his Falstaff stomach, whose vast rotundity was outlined beneath a violet-coloured morning-gown, the canon sighed from time to time in a mournful and despondent tone.

"More appetite, alas! more appetite!" murmured he. "Too many tossings of the sea have upset me. My stomach, so stout, so regular in its habits, is distracted like a watch out of order. This morning, at breakfast, ordinarily my most enjoyable meal, I have hardly eaten at all. Everything seemed insipid or bitter. What will it be at dinner, oh, what will it be at dinner, a repast which I make almost always without hunger in order to take and taste the delicate flower of the best things? Ah, may that infernal Captain Horace be cursed and damned! The horrible regimen to which I was subjected during that long voyage cost me my appetite; my stomach was irritated and revolted against those execrable salt meats and abominable dry vegetables. So, since this injury done to the delicacy of its habits, my stomach pouts and treats me badly, as if it were my fault, alas! It has a grudge against me, it punishes me, it looks big before the best dishes!

"But who knows if the hand of Providence is not there? Now that I do not feel the least hunger I realise that I have abandoned myself to a sin as detestable as—delectable. Alas! gluttony! Perhaps Providence meant to punish me by sending this miserable Captain Horace on my route. Ah, the scoundrel, what evil has he done! And this was not enough; he abducted my niece, he plunged me in new tribulations; he upset my life, my repose. I, who only asked to eat with meditation and tranquillity! Oh, this brigand captain! I will have my revenge. But whatever may be my revenge, double traitor, I cannot return to you the twentieth part of the evil that I owe you. Because here are two months that I have lost my appetite, and if I should live one hundred years, I should never catch up with those two months of enforced abstinence!"

This dolorous monologue was interrupted by the entrance of the canon's majordomo, an old servant with gray hair.

"Well, Pablo," said Dom DiÉgo to him, "you come from the convent?"

"Yes, sir."

"And my unworthy niece?"

"Sir, she is in a sort of delirium, she has a hot fever; sometimes she calls for Captain Horace with heartrending cries, sometimes she invokes death, weeping and sobbing. I assure you, sir, it is enough to break your heart."

Dom DiÉgo, in spite of his selfish sensuality, seemed at first touched by the majordomo's words, but soon he cried:

"So much the better! Dolores only has what she deserves. This will teach her to fall in love with the most detestable of men. She will remain in the convent, she shall take the veil there. My excellent friend and companion, AbbÉ Ledoux, is perfectly right; by this sample of my niece's tricks I shall know what to expect, if I keep her near me,—perpetual alarms and insults until I had her married, well or ill. Now to cut short all this the Senora Dolores will take the veil, and accomplish her salvation; my wealth will some day enrich the house, where they will pray for the repose of my soul, and I will be relieved of this she-devil of a niece,—three benefits for one."

"But, my lord, if the condition of the senora requires—"

"Not a word more, Pablo!" cried the canon, fearing he might be moved to pity in spite of himself. "Not a word more. Have I not, alas! enough personal troubles without your coming to torture me, to irritate me, with contradictions?"

"Pardon, sir, then, I wish to speak to you of another thing."

"Of what?"

"There is a man in the antechamber who desires to speak with you."

"Who is this man?"

"An old man, well dressed."

"And what does this man want?"

"To talk with you, sir, upon a very important affair. He has brought with him a large box that a porter has just delivered. It seems very heavy."

"And what is this box, Pablo?"

"I do not know, sir."

"And the name of this man?"

"Oh, a very strange name."

"What?"

"Appetite, sir."

"What! this man's name is Appetite?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must have misunderstood him."

"No, sir, I made him repeat his name twice. It is certainly Appetite."

"Alas, alas! what a cruelly ironical name!" murmured the canon, with bitterness. "But no matter, for the rarity of the name, send this man in to me."

An instant after the man announced by the majordomo entered, respectfully saluted Dom DiÉgo, and said to him:

"It is Lord Dom DiÉgo whom I have the honour of addressing?"

"Yes, what do you wish of me?"

"First, sir, to pay you the tribute of my profound admiration; then, to offer you my services."

"But, monsieur, what is your name?"

"Appetite, sir."

"Do you write your name as appetite, the desire for food, is written?"

"Yes, sir, but I confess that it is not my name, but my surname."

"To deserve such a surname you ought to be eminently well endowed by nature, M. Appetite; you ought to enjoy an eternal hunger," said the canon, with a sigh of regretful envy.

"On the contrary, I eat very little, sir, as almost all those who have the sacred mission of making others eat."

"How? What, then, is your profession?"

"Cook, sir, and would like the honour of serving you, if I can merit that felicity."

The canon shook his head sadly, and hid his face in his hands; he felt all his griefs revive at the proposition of M. Appetite, who went on to say:

"My second master, Lord Wilmot, whose stomach was so debilitated that for almost a year he ate without pleasure, and even without knowing the taste of different dishes, literally devoured food the first day I had the honour of serving him. It was he who, through gratitude, gave me the name of Appetite, which I have kept ever since."

The canon looked at his visitor attentively, and replied:

"Ah, you are a cook? But tell me, you have spoken to me of paying me the tribute of your admiration and of offering me your services, where were you acquainted with me?"

"You have, sir, during your sojourn in Madrid, often dined with the ambassador of France."

"Oh, yes, that was my good time," replied Dom DiÉgo, with sadness. "I rendered ample justice to the table of the ambassador of France, and I have proclaimed the fact that I knew of no better practitioner than his chef."

"And this illustrious practitioner, with whom, my lord, I am in correspondence, that we may mutually keep pace with the progress of the science, has written to me to express his joy at having been so worthily appreciated by a connoisseur like yourself. I had taken note of your name, and yesterday, learning by chance that you were in search of a cook, I come to have the honour of offering you my services."

"And from whom do you come, my friend?"

"For ten years, my lord, I have worked only for myself, that is to say, for art. I have a modest fortune, but enough, so it is not a mercenary motive which brings me to you, sir."

"But why do you offer your services to me, rather than to some one else?"

"Because, being free to choose, I consult my convenience; because I am very jealous, my lord, horribly jealous."

"Jealous; and of what?"

"Of my master's fidelity."

"What, the fidelity of your master?"

"Yes, my lord; and I am sure you will be faithful, because you live alone, without family, and, by condition as well as character, you have not, like so many others, all sorts of inclinations which always bore or annoy one; as a serious and convinced man, you have only one passion, but profound, absolute, and that is gluttony. Well, this passion, I offer, my lord, to satisfy, as you have never been satisfied in your life."

"You talk of gold, my dear friend, but do you know that, to make good your claims, in the use of such extravagant language, you must have great talent,—prodigious talent?"

"This great, this prodigious talent I have, my lord."

"Your avowal is not modest."

"It is sincere, and you know, sir, that one may employ a legitimate assurance, from the consciousness of his power."

"I like this noble pride, my dear friend, and if your acts respond to your words, you are a superior person."

"Sir, put me to trial to-day, this hour."

"To-day, this hour!" cried the canon, shrugging his shoulders. "You do not know, then, that for two accursed months I have been in this deplorable state; that there is nothing I can taste; that this morning I have left untouched a breakfast ordered from Chevet, who supplies me until my kitchen is well appointed. Ah, if you did not have the appearance of an honest man, I would think you came to insult my misery,—proposing to cook for me when I am never the least hungry."

"Sir, my name is Appetite."

"But I repeat to you, my dear friend, that only an hour ago I refused the choicest things."

"So much the better, my lord, I could not present myself to you at a more favourable juncture; my triumph will be great."

"Listen, my dear friend, I cannot tell you if it is the influence of your name, or the learned and exalted manner with which you speak of your art, which gives me confidence in you, in spite of myself; but I experience, I will not say, a desire to eat, because I would challenge you to make me swallow the wing of an ortolan; but indeed I experience, in hearing you reason upon cooking, a pleasure which makes me hope that perhaps, later, if appetite returns to me, I—"

"My lord, pardon me if I interrupt you; you have a kitchen here?"

"Certainly, with every appointment. A fire has just been kindled there to keep warm what was brought already prepared from Chevet, but, alas! utterly useless."

"Will you give me, sir, a half-hour?"

"What to do?"

"To prepare a breakfast for you, sir."

"With what?"

"I have brought all that is necessary."

"But what is the good of this breakfast, my dear friend? Go, believe me, and do not compromise a talent in which I am pleased to believe, by engaging in a foolish, impossible undertaking."

"Sir, will you give me a half-hour?"

"But I ask again, for what good?"

"To make you eat an excellent breakfast, sir, which will predispose you for a still better dinner."

"That is folly, I tell you; you are mad."

"Try, my lord; what do you risk?"

"Go on, then, you must be a magician."

"I am, sir, perhaps," replied the cook, with a strange smile.

"Very well, bear then the penalty of your own pride," cried Dom DiÉgo, ringing violently. "If you are instantly overwhelmed with humiliation, and are compelled to confess the impotence of your art, it is you who would have it. Take care, take care."

"You will eat, my lord," replied the artist, in a professional tone; "yes, you will eat, and much, and deliciously."

At the moment the cook pronounced these rash words the majordomo, called by the sound of the bell, entered.

"Pablo," said the canon, "open the kitchen to this man, and lay a cover for me. Justice must be done."

"But, sir, this morning—"

"Do as I tell you, conduct M. Appetite to the kitchen, and if he has need of help, let some one help him."

"I have need of no one, sir, I am accustomed to work alone in my laboratory. I ask of you permission to shut myself in."

"Have all that you wish, my dear friend, but may I be for ever damned for my sins if I swallow a mouthful of what you are going to serve me. I understand myself, I think, and there is really an overweening pride in you—"

"It is half-past eleven, my lord," said the cook, interrupting Dom DiÉgo, with majesty; "when the clock strikes noon you will breakfast."

And the artist went out, accompanied by the majordomo.

CHAPTER VII.

After the disappearance of M. Appetite, this strange cook who offered his services with such superb assurance, the canon, left alone, said to himself, as he rose painfully from his chair and walked to and fro with agitation:

"The arrogant self-confidence of this cook confounds me and impresses me in spite of myself. But if he thinks he is dealing with a novice in the knowledge of dainty dishes, he has made a mistake, and I will make him see it. Well, what a fool I am to be so much disturbed! Can any human power give me in five minutes the hunger that has failed me for two months? Ah, that accursed Captain Horace! What a pleasure it would be to me to put him under lock and key! To think that the only nourishment he would have would be the nauseous diet given to prisoners, watered by a glass of blue wine, as rough to the throat as a rasp, and as sour as spoiled vinegar. But bah! This scoundrel, accustomed, doubtless, to the frequent privations endured by mariners, is capable of being indifferent to such a martyrdom, and of preserving his insolent appetite, while I—Ah, if this cook has not told me a lie! But, no, no, like all the French he is braggart, he is full of pride! And yet his assurance seems to me conscientious. He has something, too, in his look, in his countenance, expressive of power. But, in fact, what is this man? Where does he come from? Can I trust myself to his sincerity? I recall now that, when I spoke to him of the impossibility of reviving my appetite, he replied, with a significant bow: 'My lord, perhaps I am a magician.' If there are magicians they are the sons of the evil spirit, and God keep me from ever meeting them! This man must be a real magician if he makes me eat. Alas, I am a great sinner! Satan takes all sorts of forms, and if—Oh, no, no, I shudder at the very thought! I must turn away from such doleful meditations!"

Then, after a moment's silence, the canon added, as he looked at his watch:

"See, it will soon be noon. In spite of myself, the nearer the fatal hour comes, the more my anxiety increases. I feel a strange emotion, I can admit it to myself. I am almost afraid. It seems to me that this man at this very hour is surrendering himself to a mysterious incantation, that he is plotting something superhuman, because to resurrect the dead and resurrect my appetite would be to work the same miracle. And this wonderful man has undertaken to work this miracle. And if he does, must I not recognise his supernatural power? Come, come, I am ashamed of this weakness. Well, I am indifferent, I prefer not to be alone, because the nearer the hour the more uncomfortable I am. I must ring for Pablo. (He rings.) Yes, the silence of this dwelling, the thought that this strange man is there in that subterranean kitchen, bending over his blazing furnace, like some bad spirit occupied with his sorcery,—all that gives me a strange sensation. Ah, so Pablo does not hear!" cried the canon, now at the highest pitch of uneasiness.

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 Madeira 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:

"My friend," pursued the canon, "from this day you are mine; your conditions will be mine. I am rich; good cheer is my only passion, and for you I will not be a master, but an admirer. Never, my friend, never, have you been better appreciated. You have told me yourself you work only for art, and you prove it, for I declare openly you are the greatest master cook of the world. The miracle that you have wrought to-day, not only in restoring my appetite, but in increasing it as I tasted your masterpieces (even at this hour I feel able to enjoy another breakfast), this miracle, I say, places you outside of the line of ordinary cooks. We will never part, my dear friend; all that you ask I will grant; you can take other assistants, other subalterns, if you desire to do so. I wish to spare you all fatigue; your health is too precious to me to permit you to compromise it, for henceforth,—I feel it there," and Dom DiÉgo put his fat hand on his stomach,—"henceforth, I shall not know how to live without you, and—"

"So," cried the cook, interrupting the canon, and smiling with a sarcastic air, "so you have breakfasted well, my lord canon?"

"Have I breakfasted well, my dear friend! Let me tell you I owe you the enjoyment of an hour and a quarter. An inexpressible enjoyment, without intermission except when your services were interrupted, and these intermissions were filled with delight. Hovering between hope and remembrance, was I not expecting new pleasures with an insatiable longing? You ask me if I have breakfasted well! Pablo will tell you that I have wept with tenderness. That is my reply."

"I have been permitted, my lord, to send you some wines as accompaniments, because good dishes without good wines are like a beautiful woman without soul. Now, have you found these wines palatable, my lord?"

"Palatable! Great God, what blasphemy! Inestimable samples of all known nectars—palatable! Wines whose value could not be paid, if you exchanged them, bottle for bottle, with liquid gold—palatable! Come now, my dear friend, your modesty is exaggerated, as you seemed a moment ago to exaggerate your immense talent. But I recognise the fact that, if your genius should be boasted to hyperbole, there would still remain more than half untold."

"I have still more wine of this quality," said the cook, coldly; "for twenty-five years I have been preparing a tolerable cellar for myself."

"But this tolerable cellar, my dear friend, must have cost you millions?"

"It has cost me nothing, my lord."

"Nothing."

"They are all so many gifts to my humble merit."

"I am by no means astonished, my dear friend, but what are you going to do with this cellar, which is rich enough to be the envy of a king? Ah, if you desired to surrender to me the whole, or a part of it, I would not hesitate to make any sacrifice for its possession; because, as you have just said with so much significance, good dishes without good wines are like a beautiful woman without soul. Now, these wines accompany your productions so admirably that—I—"

The cook interrupted Dom DiÉgo with a sarcastic, sneering laugh.

"You laugh, my friend?" said the canon, greatly surprised. "You laugh?"

"Yes, my lord, I laugh."

"And at what, my friend?"

"At your gratitude to me, my lord canon."

"My friend, I do not understand you."

"Ah, Lord Dom DiÉgo! you believe that your good angel—and I picture him to myself, fat and chubby, dressed as I am, like a cook, and wearing pheasant wings on the back of his white robe!—ah, you believe, I say, my lord canon, that your good angel has sent me to you!"

"My dear friend," said Dom DiÉgo, stretching his large eyes, and feeling very uncomfortable on account of the cook's sardonic humour, "my dear friend, I pray you, explain yourself clearly."

"My lord canon, this day will prove a fatal one for you."

"Great God! what do you say?"

"My lord canon!" replied the cook, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed in a threatening manner on the canon.

And he took a step toward Dom DiÉgo, who recoiled from him with an expression of pain.

"My lord canon, look at me well."

"I—I—am looking at you," stammered Dom DiÉgo, "but—"

"My lord canon, my face shall pursue you everywhere, in your sleep and in your waking hours! You shall see me always before you, with my cotton cap and white jacket, like a terrible and fantastic apparition."

"Ah, my God! it is all up with me!" murmured the canon, terrified. "My presentiments did not deceive me; this appetite was too miraculous, these dishes, these wines, too supernatural not to have some awful mystery, some infernal magic in them."

Just at this critical moment the canon fortunately saw his majordomo enter.

"My lord," said Pablo, "the lawyer has just arrived; you know the lawyer who—"

"Pablo, stop there!" cried Dom DiÉgo, seizing his majordomo by the arm and drawing him near to himself. "Do not leave me."

"My God, sir! what is the matter?" said Pablo. "You seem to be frightened."

"Ah, Pablo, if you only knew," said Dom DiÉgo, in a low, whining voice, without daring to turn his eyes away from the cook.

"My lord," replied Pablo, "I told you the lawyer had arrived."

"What lawyer, Pablo?"

"The one who comes to draw up in legal form your demand for the arrest of Captain Horace, guilty of the abduction of Senora Dolores."

"Pablo, it is impossible to occupy myself now with business. I have no head—I must be dreaming. Ah, if you only knew what had happened! This cook—oh, my presentiments!"

"Then, my lord, I am going to send the lawyer away."

"No!" cried the canon, "no, it is this miserable Captain Horace who is the cause of all my ills. If he had not destroyed my appetite, I should have already breakfasted this morning when this tempter in a white jacket introduced himself here, and I would not have been the victim of his sorcery. No," added Dom DiÉgo, in a paroxysm of anger, "tell this lawyer to wait; he shall write my complaint this very hour. But first let me get out of this awful perplexity," added he, throwing a frightened glance at the silent and formidable cook. "I must know what this mysterious being wants of me to terrify me so. Tell the lawyer to enter my study, and do not leave me, Pablo."

The majordomo went to say a few words outside of the door to the lawyer, who entered an adjacent room, and the canon, the majordomo, and the cook remained alone.

Dom DiÉgo, encouraged by the presence of Pablo, tried to reassure himself, and said to the man in the white jacket, who still preserved his unruffled and sardonic demeanour:

"See, my good friend, let us talk seriously. It is neither a question of good or of bad angels, but of a man who possesses tremendous talent,—I am speaking of you,—whom I would like to attach to my household at whatever price it may cost. We were discussing the cellar of divine wines, for the acquisition of which I would esteem no sacrifice too much. I speak to you with all the sincerity of my soul, my dear and good friend; reply to me in the same way."

Then the canon whispered to his majordomo:

"Pablo, do you stand between him and me."

"Then," replied the cook, "I will speak to you with equal sincerity, my lord canon, and first, let me repeat, I will be the desolation, the despair of your life."

"You?"

"I."

"Pablo, do you hear him? What have I done to him? My God!" murmured Dom DiÉgo, "what grudge has he?"

"Remember well my words, my lord canon. In comparison with the marvellous repast I have served you, the best dishes will seem insipid, the best wines bitter, and your appetite, awakened a moment by my power, will be again destroyed when I am no longer there to resurrect it."

"But, my friend," cried the canon, "you are thinking then of—"

The man in the cotton cap and white jacket again interrupted the canon and said:

"In recalling the delicacies which I have made you enjoy a moment, you will be like the fallen angels, who recall the celestial joys of paradise only to regret them in the midst of lamentation and gnashing of teeth."

"My good friend, I pray you one word!"

"You will gnash your teeth, canon!" cried the cook, in a solemn voice, which sounded in the depths of Dom DiÉgo's soul like the blast of the trumpet of the last judgment. "You will be as a soul,—no, you have no soul, you will be like a stomach, scenting, hunting, touching all the choicest dishes that can be served, and crying with terrible groanings as you recall this morning's breakfast: 'Alas! alas! my appetite has passed like a shadow; those exquisite dishes I will taste no more! alas! alas!' Then in your despair you will become lean,—do you hear me, canon?—you will become lean."

"Great God! Pablo, what is this wretched man saying?"

"Until the present, in spite of your loss of appetite, you have lived upon your fat, like rats in winter, but henceforth you will suffer the double and terrible blow of the loss of appetite and the ceaseless regrets that I will leave to you. You will become lean, canon, yes, your cheeks will be flabby, your triple chin will melt like wax in the sun, your enormous stomach will become flat like a leather bottle exhausted of its contents, your complexion, so radiant to-day, will grow yellow under the constant flow of your tears, and you will become lean, scraggy, and livid as an anchorite living on roots and water,—do you hear, canon?"

"Pablo," murmured Dom DiÉgo, shutting his eyes, and leaning on his majordomo, "support me. I feel as if I were struck with death. It seems to me I see my own ghost, such as this demon portrays. Yes, Pablo, I see myself lean, scraggy, livid. Oh, my God! it is frightful! it is horrible! It is the divine punishment for my sin of gluttony."

"My lord, calm yourself," said the majordomo.

And addressing the cook with mingled fear and anger, he said:

"Do you undertake to tyrannise over such an excellent and venerable a man as the Lord Dom DiÉgo?"

"And now," continued the cook, pitilessly, "farewell, canon, farewell for ever."

"Farewell, farewell for ever," cried Dom DiÉgo, with a violent start, as if he had received an electric shock. "What! can it be true? you will abandon me for ever. Oh, no, no, I see all now: in making me regret your loss so deeply, you wish to put your services at a higher price. Well, then, speak, how much must you have?"

"Ah, ah, ah, ah!" shouted the man with the cotton cap and white jacket, bursting into Mephistophelian laughter, and walking slowly toward the door.

"No, no," cried the canon, clasping his hands; "no, you will not abandon me thus,—it would be atrocious, it would be savage, it would be to leave an unfortunate traveller in the middle of a burning desert, after having given him the delight of an oasis full of shade and freshness."

"You ought to have been a great preacher in your time, canon," said the man in the white jacket, continuing his march toward the door.

"Mercy, mercy!" cried Dom DiÉgo, in a voice choked with tears. "Ah, indeed, it is no longer the artist, the cook of genius with whom I plead; it is the man,—it is to one like myself that I bend the knee,—oh, see me, and beseech him not to leave a brother in hopeless woe."

"Yes, and see me at your knees, too, my lord cook!" cried the worthy majordomo, excited by the emotion of his master, and like him, falling on his knees; "a very humble poor creature joins his prayer to that of the Lord Dom DiÉgo. Alas! do not abandon him, he will die!"

"Yes," replied the cook, with a Satanic burst of laughter, "he will die, and he will die lean."

The last sarcasm changed the despair of Dom DiÉgo to fury. He rose quickly, and, notwithstanding his obesity, threw himself upon the cook, crying:

"Come to me, Pablo; the monster shall not cook for anybody, his death only can deliver me from his infernal persecution!"

"My lord," cried the majordomo, less excited than his master, "what are you doing? Grief makes you wild."

Fortunately, the man in the white jacket, at the first aggressive movement of Dom DiÉgo, recoiled two steps, and put himself in a defensive attitude by means of a large kitchen knife which he brandished in one hand, while in the other he held a sharp larding-pin.

At the sight of the formidable knife and larding-pin, drawn like a dagger, the murderous exasperation of the canon was dispelled; but the violence of his emotions, the heat of his blood, and the state of his digestion produced such a revolution that he tottered and fell unconscious in the arms of the majordomo, who, too weak to sustain such a weight, himself sank to the floor, screaming with all his strength:

"Help! help!"

Then the man in the white jacket disappeared, with a last resounding burst of laughter which would have done honour to Satan himself, and terrified the majordomo almost to death.

CHAPTER IX.

Many days had elapsed since the canon, Dom DiÉgo, had been so mercilessly abandoned by the strange and inimitable cook of whom we have spoken.

In the home of the AbbÉ Ledoux, the following scene occurred between him and the canon.

The threatening predictions of the great cook were beginning to be realised. Dom DiÉgo, pale, dejected, with a complexion yellowed by abstinence,—for all dishes seemed to him tasteless and nauseating since the marvellous breakfast of which he constantly dreamed,—would scarcely have been recognised. His enormous stomach had already lost its rotundity, and the poor man, whose physiognomy and attitude betrayed abject misery, responded in a mournful tone to the questions of the abbÉ, who, walking up and down the parlour in the greatest agitation, addressed him in a rude and angry tone:

"In truth, you have not the least energy, Dom DiÉgo; you have fallen into a desperate state of apathy."

"That is easy for you to say," murmured the canon, in a grieved tone. "I would like very much to see you in my place, alas!"

"Oh, come now, this is shameful!"

"Abuse me, abbÉ, curse me; but what do you want? Since this accursed man has abandoned me I live no longer, I eat no longer, I sleep no longer! Ah, he well said, 'My memory and my face will pursue you everywhere, canon!' In fact, I am always thinking of the Guinea fowl eggs, the trout, and the roast À la Sardanapalus. And he, I see him always and everywhere in his white jacket and cotton cap. It is like a hallucination. To-night, even, yielding myself to a feverish, nervous slumber, I dreamed of this demon."

"Better and better, canon."

"What a nightmare! My God! what a horrible nightmare! He had served me with one of those exquisite, divine dishes, which he alone has the genius to produce, and he said to me, with his sardonic air, 'Eat, canon, eat.' It was, I recollect,—I see it still,—a delicious reed-bird with orange sauce. I had a devouring appetite; I took my knife and fork to carve the adorable little bird; I was carving it into slices, golden outside and rosy within, and veined with such fine, delicate fat. A thousand little drops of rosy juice appeared on the flesh, like so many drops of dew, to such a point was it roasted. I steeped it in several spoonfuls of orange sauce whose flavour tickled my palate, before I tasted it. I took on the end of my fork a royal mouthful; I opened my mouth. Suddenly the ferocious laughter of my executioner resounded, and horror! I had on the end of my fork only a great piece of rancid, glutinous, infected yellow bacon. 'Eat, canon, why do you not eat?' repeated this accursed man, in his strident voice. 'Why do you not eat?' And in spite of myself, in spite of my terrible repugnance, I ate! Yes, abbÉ, I ate this disgusting bacon. Oh, when I think of it,—bah! it was horrible. And I awoke, bathed in tears. Night before last another odious dream. It was about eel-pout livers, and—"

"Go to the devil, canon!" cried the abbÉ, already provoked by this recital of Dom DiÉgo's gastronomic nightmare, "you are enough to damn a saint with your maudlin prattle."

"Prattle!" cried the canon, in despair. "What! here for eight days I have been able to swallow only a few spoonfuls of chocolate,—so faint, so disheartened am I. What! I have had the fortitude to pass two hours seated in the museums of Chevet and Bontoux, those famous cooks, hoping that perhaps the sight of their rare collections of comestibles would excite in me some desire of appetite,—and nothing, nothing. No, the recollection of that celestial breakfast was there, always there, annihilating everything by the sole power of a cherished memory. Ah, abbÉ, abbÉ, I have never loved, but since these three days I comprehend all that is exclusive in love; I comprehend how a man passionately in love remains indifferent to the sight of the most beautiful creature in the world, dreaming, alas!—three times alas!—only of the adored object which he regrets."

"But, canon," said the abbÉ, looking at Dom DiÉgo with anxiety, "do you know that all this will result in delirium—in insanity?"

"Eh, my God! I know it well, abbÉ, I am losing my head. This cursed seducer has carried away my life and thought with him. In the street, I gaze into the faces of all who pass, in the hope of meeting him. Great God! if this good luck would only happen! Oh, he would not be insensible to my prayers. 'Cruel, perfidious man,' I would say, 'look at me. See on my features the mark of my sufferings! Will you be without pity? No, no; mercy, mercy!'"

And the canon, falling back in his armchair, covered his face with his hands and burst into sobs.

"My God! my God! how wretched I am!" he cried.

"What a double brute! He will be a fool, if he is not one already," said the abbÉ to himself. "I will not complain of it, because, his insanity once established, he will not leave our house, and whether it is he or his niece little matters."

The abbÉ approached the canon with compunction, and said to him, gently:

"Come, my brother, be reasonable, calm yourself, perhaps we ought to see in what has happened the punishment of Heaven."

"I think with you, abbÉ, this tempter came from hell. It is not given to any human being to be such a cook. Ah, abbÉ, I must be a great sinner, for my punishment is terrible!"

"You have indeed surrendered yourself, without measure, without restraint, to one of the foulest of the capital sins,—gluttony, my dear brother,—and I repeat to you Heaven punishes you, as is its law, in the very thing by which you have sinned."

"But after all, what is my crime? I have simply used the admirable gifts of the Creator, for in fact it is not I who, in order to enjoy them, have created pheasants, ortolans, fat livers, salmon trout, truffles, oysters, lobsters, wines, and—"

"My brother, my brother!" cried the abbÉ, interrupting this appetising enumeration, "your words savour of materialism, pantheism, heresy! You are not in a state of mind to listen to me as I refute these impious, abominable systems which lead directly to paganism. But there is one indisputable fact, which is, that you suffer, my brother, you suffer cruelly; it is for us to bind up your wounds, my tender brother, it is for us to comfort them with balm and honey."

At these words the canon made an involuntary grimace, because, in his gastronomic monomania, the idea of honey and balm was especially distasteful.

The abbÉ continued:

"Let us see, my dear brother, let us return to the cause of all your ills."

"Alas! abbÉ, it is the loss of my appetite."

"Be it so, my brother, and who has caused the loss of your appetite?"

"That wretch!" cried the canon, irritated, "that infamous Captain Horace."

"That is true; well, I will always preach to you the forgiveness of injuries, my dear brother; but, too, I must recommend to you an inexorable severity against sacrilege."

"What sacrilege, abbÉ?"

"Have not Captain Horace and one of his sailors dared to leap over the sacred walls of the convent where you had shut up your niece? Have they not had the audacity to carry away the miserable girl, whom happily we have recaptured? This enormity in other times might have been punished with fire, and one day it will be punished with eternal fire."

"And this villain of a captain will only have what he deserves," cried Dom DiÉgo, ferociously; "yes, he will cook—he will roast on Satan's spit by a slow fire, all eternity, where he will be moistened with gravy of melted lead, after having been larded with red-hot iron. Such will be his punishment, I earnestly hope."

"So may it be, but while waiting this eternal expiation, why not punish him here below? Why have you had the culpable weakness to give up your demand for the arrest of this miscreant? I need not remind you that this man is the first cause of all that you call your ills,—that is, the loss of your appetite."

"That is true, he is a great criminal."

"Then, my brother, why, I ask again, have you been so weak as to renounce your pursuit of him? You do not reply, you seem to be embarrassed."

"It is that—"

"It is what?"

"Alas, abbÉ, you are going to scold me, to lecture me again."

"Explain yourself, my brother."

"What shall I say? It is his fault, for, since he has disappeared, all my thoughts come from him and return to him."

"Who, he?"

"This angel or this demon."

"What angel—what demon?"

"The cook."

"Again the cook?"

"Always!"

"Come," said the abbÉ, shrugging his shoulders, "do explain yourself, my brother."

"Well, then, abbÉ, know that the day after the fatal day when I breakfasted as I shall never breakfast again, alas! when my despair was at its height, I received a mysterious note."

"And what did this contain, my brother?"

"Here it is."

"You have kept it."

"It is perhaps his cherished handwriting," murmured the canon, with a melancholy accent.

And he handed the note to AbbÉ Ledoux, who read as follows:

"My Lord Canon:—There remains perhaps one means of seeing me again.

"You now know the delights with which I am able to surfeit you.

"You also know the terrible torments which my absence inflicts.

"Before yesterday, not having felt these torments in all their anguish, you presumed to refuse what I expected of you.

"To-day, as past sufferings will be a guarantee for the sufferings to come, listen to me.

"You can put an end to these sufferings.

"For that, you must grant me three things.

"I demand the first to-day; in eight days the second; in fifteen days the third.

"I proportion the importance of my demands to the progress of your suffering, because the more you suffer, the more you will regret me and show yourself docile.

"Here is my first demand:

"Send back by the bearer of this note, your nonsuit of all complaint against Captain Horace.

"Give me by this act a proof of your desire to satisfy me, and then you will be able to hope that you may find again

Appetite."

CHAPTER X.

When AbbÉ Ledoux had finished reading this note, he reflected a moment in silence, while the canon, repeating the last words of the letter, said, bitterly:

"'And you will be able to hope to find Appetite!' What cruel irony in this pitiless pun!"

"That is singular," said the abbÉ, thoughtfully. "Did you see the bearer of this note, Dom DiÉgo?"

"Did I see him? Could I lose this opportunity to speak of him?"

"Well?"

"Ah, well, one would have thought I was speaking Hebrew to this animal. To my most pressing questions, he responded with a stupid air. I was not able to draw from him either the address or the name of the person who had sent me the note."

"And so, canon, it is in obedience to this letter that you have renounced your complaint against this renegade Captain Horace."

"Yes, because I hoped, by my deference to the desires of him who holds my life in his hands, to soften his heart of stone, but alas! this concession has not touched him."

"But what relations can exist between this accursed cook and Captain Horace?" said AbbÉ Ledoux, still absorbed in thought. "Some intrigue is hidden there."

Then after another silence he added:

"Dom DiÉgo, listen to me; I will not tell you to abandon the hope that some day you may have in your service this cook whom you prize so highly. I shall not insist upon the dangers which threaten your eternal salvation in consequence of your persistent and abominable gluttony; you are at this moment in such a state of excitement that you would not comprehend it."

"I fear so, abbÉ"

"I am sure of it, canon. I will deal then with you as we deal, permit me to say it, with monomaniacs. I will for the present put myself in your place, extraordinary as it may seem, and I must tell you that you have done exactly the contrary of what you ought to have done, if you wish to gain power over this man, who, as you say, controls your destiny."

"Explain yourself, my dear abbÉ."

"After all you have confided to me, evidently this cook has no need of a position; having learned of your favourite vice, he has only sought a pretext for introducing himself into your house; his connivance with Captain Horace only proves, do you not see, that their plan was arranged beforehand, and they proposed to use your love of eating as a means of gaining influence over you."

"Great God!" cried Dom DiÉgo, "that is a ray of light!"

"Do you confess your blindness now?"

"What an infernal plot! What atrocious Machiavellism!" murmured the canon, thoroughly frightened.

Then he added, with a sigh of dejection, full of bitterness:

"Such dissimulation! Such perfidy united to such beautiful genius! Oh, humanity! Oh, humanity!"

"Let me continue," replied the abbÉ. "You have already, by your unworthy weakness, deprived yourself of one of the three means by which you might have controlled this great cook, since, as he has had the effrontery to warn you beforehand, there are yet two others he intends to exact from you, and he counts on your deplorable readiness to yield, to obtain them. Now, this end once attained, he will laugh at you, and you will see him no more."

"AbbÉ, that is impossible."

"Why?"

"I tell you, abbÉ, such treason is impossible. You surely do not believe that men are ferocious beasts,—monsters."

"I believe, canon," replied the abbÉ, with a shrug of the shoulders, "I believe that a cook who gives gratis wines at one or two louis a bottle—"

"Wait, pray," interrupted Dom DiÉgo. "Neither one, nor two, nor six louis would pay the cost of such wines. They were nectar, abbÉ, they were ambrosia, I tell you!"

"All the more reason, canon; a cook who is so prodigal of such costly ambrosia has no need of hiring himself for wages, I imagine."

"I not only offered him wages, I offered him, also, my friendship,—think of it, abbÉ, I said to this perfidious monster, 'Friend, I will not be your master, I will be your admirer.'"

"You see that he cared as little for your friendship as for your admiration."

"Ah, that would be an ingrate, indeed!"

"That may be; but if you wish, in your turn, to put this ingrate at your feet, there is a way for you to do so."

"To put him at my feet! Oh, abbÉ, if you could work this miracle! but, no, no, you are without pity, you play upon my credulity."

"The miracle is very simple; refuse absolutely all that this man demands of you, because if he has no need of your friendship or your admiration, he has evidently great need of your leaving off your suit against this Captain Horace. Refuse that, and you will hold your man. I do not know for how long a time you will hold him, but you will hold him. We will see afterward how to prolong your power. I am, you see, a man of wise counsel."

"AbbÉ, you open my eyes, you are right; in refusing his demands, I shall force him to return to me."

"Well, do you agree to it?"

"I was blind, silly! But what do you want, abbÉ? Despair, inanition! The stomach reacts so terribly on the brain. Ah, why was I so weak as to sign this nonsuit?"

"It is time to recall it."

"You think so, abbÉ?"

"I am certain of it. I know persons who are very influential with the magistracy."

"What an opportunity, abbÉ, what an opportunity!"

"We have friends everywhere. Now, listen to what is necessary for you to do. You go at once and present your complaint in legal form; we will attest it immediately at the bar of the king's attorney. We will say to him that the other day when you were in a condition of suffering and wholly irresponsible, you signed the nonsuit, but reflecting upon the sacrilegious crime of Captain Horace, you would fail in your double character of canon and guardian if you did not deliver this criminal to the rigour of the law. Begin by this act of decision and you will soon see this insolent cook, who dictates his orders to you, humble and submissive to your will."

"AbbÉ, dear abbÉ, you have saved my life."

"Wait, that is not all. This mysterious unknown, who interests himself so much in Captain Horace, must also interest himself in the captain's marriage with your niece. Evidently this intrigue concerns that, because, understand me, I wager a hundred to one that one of the two things which this impertinent cook reserves to ask of you is your consent to this marriage."

"What a depth of villainy!" cried the canon. "What diabolical plotting! There is no longer room for doubt, abbÉ, such was the plan of this miserable creature. Oh, if in my turn I could only get him in my power!"

"The way is very easy, and whatever may be the cause of it, after the various ramifications of this dark intrigue, of which your niece is the end, you must see that there would be grave dangers in leaving her in Paris, and whatever course you may take in regard to this—"

"She shall enter a convent," interrupted the canon, "that is my intention at all hazards; she has already caused me enough worry, enough care. I do not like to play the rÔle of a guardian in a comedy."

"Your niece, then, will enter a convent; but to leave her in Paris is to expose her to the plotting of Captain Horace and his friends, and you know their audacity. Perhaps they will abduct her a second time. Imagine what new sorrow that would bring to you."

"But where shall I send this accursed girl?"

"Let her depart for Lyons to-day, even; we have an excellent house in that city, once entered there it would be impossible for her to communicate with the outside. Now, see what we are going to do. The first thing is to go at once to the Palais de Justice; there I shall find an influential person who will recommend me to the king's attorney, in whose hands you will lodge your complaint. After that we will hasten to the convent; among the livery hacks there is always a carriage ready for an emergency; one of our sisters and a steady and resolute man will accompany your niece; you will give your orders to them; in two hours she will be on the route to Lyons, and before the end of the day Captain Horace will be locked in jail, because, as he believes your complaint is withdrawn, he will come out of the retreat which we have not been able to discover. Once this miscreant arrested, and your niece out of Paris, you will see my Lord Appetite run to you, and with a little address—I will help you if you wish it—you will have him at your mercy, and can do with him as you please."

"Dear abbÉ, you are my saviour!" cried the canon, rising from his seat, his face radiant with hope. "You are a superior man; Father Benoit told me so in Cadiz. Let us go, let us go. I abandon myself blindly to your counsels; everything tells me they are excellent, and that they will place him, who is an angel and a demon to me, in my power for ever."

"Let us go, then, my dear Dom DiÉgo," said the abbÉ, hastily putting on his hat, and dragging the canon by the arm.

The moment the canon opened the door of the parlour, he found himself face to face with Doctor Gasterini, who familiarly entered the saintly man's house without announcement.

The abbÉ was just going to address a word to the doctor, when at a cry from the canon he turned abruptly and saw Dom DiÉgo, pale, motionless, his gaze fixed, and his hands clasped, and his face expressing all the contradictions of stupor, doubt, anguish, and hope. Finally, addressing the abbÉ, who comprehended nothing of this sudden emotion, the canon pointed to the doctor and stammered, in a broken voice, "It—is—he."

But Dom DiÉgo was not able to say more, and overcome by emotion he sat down heavily in a chair, closed his eyes, and fell over in utter weakness.

"The devil! the canon here!" said Doctor Gasterini to himself. "Cursed accident!"

AbbÉ Ledoux, at the sight of Dom DiÉgo's collapse,—a pathetic picture,—turned to the doctor, and said:

"I think, really, the canon must be ill. What is the matter with him? Your arrival is fortunate, my dear doctor; wait,—here is a vial of salts, it will assist his breathing."

Hardly was the bottle placed to the nostrils of the canon when he sneezed violently, with a cavernous bellowing, then coming out of his fainting fit, but not having the strength to rise, he turned his languid eyes, suffused with tears, to the doctor, and said, with an accent which he wished to be stern, but which was only tender:

"Ah, cruel man!"

"Cruel!" said the abbÉ, bewildered, "why do you call the doctor cruel, Dom DiÉgo?"

"Yes," interposed the physician, perfectly calm and smiling, "what cruelty can you accuse me of, sir?"

"You ask that, you ingrate!" said the canon. "You dare ask that!"

"What! you call the doctor an ingrate!" said the abbÉ.

"The doctor!" said the canon, "what doctor?"

"Why, my friend, the man to whom you are speaking," said the abbÉ, "my friend standing there, Doctor Gasterini."

"He!" cried the canon, rising abruptly. "I tell you that is my tempter, my seducer!"

"The devil! he sees him everywhere," said the abbÉ, impatiently. "I repeat it to you that the gentleman is Doctor Gasterini, my friend."

"And I repeat to you, abbÉ," cried Dom DiÉgo, "that the gentleman is the great cook of whom I have spoken to you!"

"Doctor," said the abbÉ, earnestly, "in the name of Heaven, do explain this blunder."

"There is no blunder at all, my dear abbÉ."

"What?"

"The canon speaks the truth," replied Doctor Gasterini. "Day before yesterday I had the pleasure of preparing a dish for him; for, in order to have the honour of calling yourself a glutton, you must have a practical acquaintance with the culinary art."

CHAPTER XI.

The abbÉ, amazed, looked at Doctor Gasterini, unable to believe what he had heard; at last he said:

"What! you, doctor, have cooked dishes for Dom DiÉgo? You! you?"

"Yes, I, my dear abbÉ."

"A doctor," exclaimed the canon, in his turn amazed, "a physician?"

"Yes, canon," replied Doctor Gasterini, "I am a physician, which does not prevent my being a passable cook."

"Passable!" cried the canon, "say rather, divine! But what means this—"

"I comprehend all!" replied AbbÉ Ledoux, after having remained silent and thoughtful a moment, "the plot was skilfully contrived."

"What is it that you comprehend, abbÉ? Of what plot are you talking?" said the canon, who, after his first astonishment, began to wonder how a physician could be such an extraordinary cook. "I pray you explain yourself, abbÉ!"

"Do you know, Dom DiÉgo," asked the abbÉ, with a bitter smile, "who Doctor Gasterini is?"

"But," stammered the canon, wiping the perspiration from his brow, for he had been making superhuman efforts to penetrate the mystery, "everything is so complicated—so strange—that—"

"Doctor Gasterini," cried the abbÉ, "is the uncle of Captain Horace! Do you understand now, Dom DiÉgo, the diabolical trick the doctor has played you? Do you understand that he has played upon your deplorable gluttony in order to get such a hold on you that he might induce you to abandon your pursuit of Captain Horace, his nephew, and afterward to induce you to consent to the marriage of your niece and the captain? Do you understand at last to what point you have been duped? Do you see the depth of the abyss you have escaped?"

"My God! this great cook a doctor! And he is the uncle of Captain Horace!" murmured the canon, stunned by the revelation. "He is not a real cook! Oh, illusion of illusions!"

The doctor remained silent and imperturbable.

"Hey, have you been duped enough?" asked the abbÉ. "Have you played a sufficiently ridiculous rÔle? And do you now believe that the illustrious Doctor Gasterini, one of the princes of science, who has fifty thousand a year income, would hire himself to you as a cook? Was I wrong in saying that you had been made a scoff and jeer for other persons' amusement?"

Every word from the abbÉ exasperated the anger, the grief, and the despair of the canon. The last remark above all. "Do you think the celebrated Doctor Gasterini would hire himself for wages," gave a mortal blow to the last illusions that Dom DiÉgo cherished. Turning to the doctor, he said, with an ill-concealed anger:

"Ah, sir, do you recollect the evil you have done me? I may die of it, perhaps, but I will have my revenge, if not on you, at least on that rascal, your nephew, and on my unworthy niece, who, no doubt, is also in this abominable intrigue!"

"Well, courage, Dom DiÉgo; this righteous vengeance will not tarry," said AbbÉ Ledoux.

Then he turned to the doctor, and said, sarcastically:

"Ah, doctor, you are doubtless a very shrewd, clever man, but you know the best players sometimes lose the best games, and you will lose this one!"

"Perhaps," said the doctor, smiling; "who knows?"

"Come, my dear abbÉ, come," cried the canon, pale and exasperated; "come, let us see the king's attorney, and then we will hasten the departure of my niece."

And, turning to the doctor, he said:

"To employ arms so perfidious, so disloyal! to deceive a confiding and inoffensive man with this odious Machiavellism! I who have eaten with my eyes shut, I who have taken delight upon the very brink of an abyss! Ah, sir, it is abominable, but I will have my revenge!"

"And this very instant," said the abbÉ. "Come, Dom DiÉgo, follow me. A thousand pardons, my dear doctor, to leave you so abruptly, but you understand moments are precious."

The canon, boiling with rage, was about to follow the abbÉ when Doctor Gasterini said, in a calm voice:

"Canon, a word if you please."

"If you listen to him, you are lost, Dom DiÉgo!" cried the abbÉ, dragging the canon with him. "The evil spirit himself is not more insidious than this infernal doctor. Decide for yourself after the trick he has played on you. Come, come!"

"Canon," said the doctor, seizing Dom DiÉgo by the right sleeve, while the abbÉ, who held the worthy man by the left sleeve, was using every effort to force him to follow him. "Canon," repeated the doctor, "just one word, I pray you."

"No, no!" said the abbÉ, "let us flee, Dom DiÉgo, let us flee this serpent tempter."

And the abbÉ continued to pull the canon by his right sleeve.

"Just a word," said the physician, "and you will see how much this dear abbÉ deceives you in my place."

"The AbbÉ Ledoux deceives me in your place! That is too much by far!" cried Dom DiÉgo. "How, sir, do you dare?"

"I am going to prove to you what I say, canon," said the doctor, earnestly, as he saw Dom DiÉgo make an effort to approach him. The abbÉ, suspecting the canon's weakness, pulled him violently, and said:

"Recollect, unhappy man, that your mother Eve was lost by listening to the first word of Satan. I adjure you, I command you, to follow me this instant! If you give way, unhappy man, take care! One second more, and it is all up with you. Let us go, let us go!"

"Yes, yes, you are my saviour, take me away from here," stammered the canon, disengaging himself from the grasp of the doctor. "In spite of myself, I am already yielding to the incomprehensible influence of this demon. I recall those Guinea fowl eggs with crab gravy, that trout with frozen Montpellier butter, that celestial roast À la Sardanapalus, and already a dim hope—let us fly, abbÉ, it is time, let us fly."

"Canon," said the doctor, holding on to the arm of Dom DiÉgo with all his strength, "listen to me, I pray you."

"Vade retro, Satanas!" cried Dom DiÉgo, with horror, escaping from the doctor's hands.

And dragged along by the abbÉ, he was on the threshold of the door, when the physician cried:

"I will cook for you as much as you desire, and as long as I shall live, Dom DiÉgo. Grant me five minutes, and I will prove what I declare. Five minutes, what do you risk?"

At the magic words, "I will cook for you as much as you desire," the canon seemed nailed to the door-sill, and did not advance a step, in spite of the efforts of the abbÉ, who was too exhausted to struggle against the weight of such a large man.

"You certainly are stupid!" cried the abbÉ, losing control of himself, "what a fool you are to have any dealings with him!"

"Grant me five minutes, Dom DiÉgo," urged the doctor, "and, if I do not convince you of the reality of my promises, then give free course to your vengeance. I repeat, what do you risk? I only ask a poor five minutes."

"In fact," said the canon, turning to the abbÉ, "what would I risk?"

"Go, you risk nothing!" cried the abbÉ, pushed to the extreme by the weakness of the canon; "from this moment you are lost, a scoff and a jeer. Go, go, throw yourself into the jaws of this monster, thrice dull brute that you are!"

These unfortunate words, uttered by the abbÉ in anger, wounded the pride of Dom DiÉgo to the quick, and he replied, with an offended air:

"At least, I will not be brute enough, AbbÉ Ledoux, to hesitate between the loss of five minutes, and the ruin of my hopes, as weak as they may be."

"As you please, Dom DiÉgo," replied the abbÉ, gnawing his nails with anger; "you are a good, greasy dupe to experiment upon. Really, I am ashamed of having pitied you."

"Not such a dupe, AbbÉ Ledoux, not such a dupe as you may suppose," said the canon, in a self-sufficient tone. "You are going to discover, and the doctor, too, for no doubt he is going to explain himself."

"At once," eagerly replied the doctor, "at once, my lord canon, and very clearly too, very categorically."

"Let us see," said Dom DiÉgo, swelling cheeks with an important air. "You discover, sir, that I have now powerful reasons for not allowing myself to be satisfied with chimeras, because, as the abbÉ has said, I would be a good, greasy dupe to permit you to deceive me, after so many cautions."

"Oh, certainly," said the abbÉ, in his great indignation, "you are a proud man, canon, and quite capable of fighting this son of Beelzebub."

"By which title you mean me, dear abbÉ," said the doctor, with sardonic courtesy. "What an ingrate you are! I come to remind you that you promised to dine with me to-day. Permit my lord canon, also,—he is not a stranger to our subject, as you will see."

"Yes, doctor," said the abbÉ, "I did make you this promise, but—"

"You will keep it, I do not doubt, and I will remind you, too, that this invitation was extended in consequence of a little discussion relative to the seven capital sins. Again, canon, I am in the question, and you are going to recognise it immediately."

"It is true, doctor," replied the abbÉ, with a constrained smile, "I would brand, as they deserve to be, the seven capital sins, causes of eternal damnation to the miserable beings who abandon themselves to these abominable vices, and in your passion for paradoxes, you have dared maintain that—"

"That the seven capital sins have good, in a certain point of view, in a certain measure, and gluttony, particularly, may be made an admirable passion."

"Gluttony!" cried the canon, amazed. "Gluttony admirable!"

"Admirable, my dear canon," replied the doctor, "and that, too, in the eyes of the wisest, and most sincerely religious men."

"Gluttony!" repeated the canon, who had listened to the physician with increasing bewilderment, "gluttony!"

"It is even more, my lord canon," said the doctor, solemnly, "because, for those who are to put it in practice, it becomes an imperious duty to humanity."

"A duty to humanity!" repeated Dom DiÉgo.

"And, above all, a question of high civilisation and great policy, my lord canon," added the doctor, with an air so serious, so full of conviction, that he imposed on the canon, who cried:

"Hold, doctor, if you could only demonstrate that—"

"Do you not see that the doctor is making you ridiculous?" said the abbÉ, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah, I told you the truth, unhappy Dom DiÉgo; you are lost, for ever lost, as soon as you consent to listen to such foolery."

"Canon," the doctor hastened to add, "let us resume our subject, not by reasoning, which, I confess, may appear to you specious, but by facts, by acts, by proofs, and by figures. You are both a glutton and superstitious. You have not the strength to resist your craving for good things; then, your gluttony satisfied, you are afraid of having committed a great sin, which sometimes spoils the pleasure of good cheer, and above all, injures the calmness and regularity of your digestion. Is this not true?"

"It is true," meekly replied the canon, dominated, fascinated by the doctor's words, "it is too true."

"Well, my lord canon, I wish to convince you, I repeat, not by reasoning, however logical it may be, but by visible, palpable facts and by figures, first, that in being a glutton, you accomplish a mission highly philanthropic, a benefit to civilisation and politics; second, that I can, and will be able to make you eat and drink, when you wish, with far more intense enjoyment than the other day."

"And I, I say to you," cried the abbÉ, appalled by the doctor's assurance, "that if you prove by facts and figures, as you pretend, that to be a glutton is to accomplish a mission to humanity or high civilisation, or is a thing of great political significance, I swear to you to become an adept in this philosophy, as absurd and visionary as it appears."

"And if you prove to me, doctor, that you can open again, and in the future continue to open the doors of the culinary paradise that you opened to me day before yesterday," cried the canon, palpitating with new hope, "if you prove to me that I accomplish a social duty in yielding myself up to gluttony, you will be able to dominate me, I will be your deputy, your slave, your thing."

"Agreed, my lord canon, agreed, AbbÉ Ledoux, you shall be satisfied. Let us depart."

"Depart?" asked the canon, "where?"

"To my house, Dom DiÉgo."

"To your house," said the canon, with an air of distrust, "to your house?"

"My carriage is below," replied the doctor; "in a quarter of an hour we will arrive there."

"But, doctor," asked the canon, "why go to your house? What are we going to do there?"

"At my house, only, will you be able to find those visible, palpable proofs of what I have declared, for I have come to remind the dear abbÉ that to-day is the twentieth of November, the day of the investigation to which I have invited him. But the hour advances, gentlemen, let us depart."

"I do not know if I am dreaming or awake," said Dom DiÉgo, "but I throw myself in the gulf with my eyes shut."

"You must be the very devil himself, doctor, for my instinct and reason revolt against your paradoxes. I do not believe one word of your promises, yet it is impossible for me to resist the curious desire to accompany you."

The canon and the abbÉ followed the doctor, entered his carriage with him, and soon the three arrived at the house occupied by the distinguished physician.

CHAPTER XII.

Doctor Gasterini lived in a charming house in the Faubourg du Roule, where he soon arrived in company with the canon and AbbÉ Ledoux.

"While we are waiting for dinner, would you like to take a turn in the garden?" said the doctor, to his guests. "That will give me the opportunity to present to you my poor sister's eight children, my nephews and nieces, whom I have reared and established in the world respectably, entirely by means of gluttony. You see, canon, we still follow our subject."

"What, doctor!" replied the canon, "you have reared a numerous family by means of gluttony?"

"You do not see that the doctor continues to ridicule you!" said the abbÉ, shrugging his shoulders. "It is too much by far!"

"I give you my word of honour as an honest man," replied Doctor Gasterini, "and besides, I am going to prove to you in a moment, by facts, that if I had not been the greatest gourmand among men, I should never have known how to make for each one of my nephews and nieces the excellent positions which they hold, as worthy, honest, and intelligent labourers, contributing, each in his sphere, to the prosperity of the country."

"So we are really to see people who contribute to the prosperity of the country, and for that we may thank the doctor's love of eating!" said the canon, with amazement.

"No," cried the abbÉ, "what confounds me is to hear such absurdities maintained till the last moment, and—" but suddenly interrupting himself, he asked with surprise, as he looked around:

"What is that building, doctor? It looks like shops."

"That is my orangery," replied the doctor, "and to-day, as every year at this time, my birthday, they set up shops here."

"How is that; set up shops, and what for?" asked the abbÉ.

"Zounds! why, to sell, of course, my dear abbÉ."

"Sell what? and who is to sell?"

"As to what is sold, you will soon see, and as to the purchasers, why, they are my patrons, who are coming to spend the evening here."

"Really, doctor, I do not comprehend you."

"You know, my dear abbÉ, that for a long time charity shops have been kept by some of the prettiest women in Paris."

"Ah, yes," replied the abbÉ; "the proceeds to be given to the poor."

"This is the same; the proceeds of this evening's sale will be distributed among the poor of my district."

"And who are to keep these shops?" asked the canon.

"My sister's eight children, Dom DiÉgo. They will sell there, for the charitable purpose I have mentioned, the produce of their own industry. But come, gentlemen, let us enter, and I shall have the honour of introducing to you my nieces and nephews."

With these words Doctor Gasterini conducted his friends into a vast orangery, where were arranged eight little shops or stalls for the display of wares. The green boxes of a large number of gigantic orange-trees formed the railings and separations of these stalls, so that each one had a ceiling of beautiful foliage.

"Ah, doctor," exclaimed the canon, stopping before the first stall in admiration, "this is magnificent! I have never seen anything like it in my life. It is magic!"

"It is indeed a feast for the eye," said the abbÉ. "It is unsurpassed."

Let us see what elicited the just admiration of Doctor Gasterini's guests. The boxes forming the enclosure of the first stall were ornamented with leaves and flowers; on each of these rustic platforms, covered with moss, a collection of fruits and early vegetables was displayed with rare beauty. Golden pineapples with crowns of green lay above immense baskets of grapes of every shade, from the dark purple cluster of the valley to the transparent red from the mountain vineyards. Pyramids of pears, and apples of the rarest and choicest species, of enormous size and variegated with the brightest colours, reached up to summits of bananas, as golden as if the sun of the tropics had ripened them. Farther on dwarf fig-trees in pots, and covered with violet-coloured figs, stood among a rare collection of autumn melons, Brazil pumpkins, and Spanish and white potatoes. Still farther, little rush baskets of hothouse strawberries contrasted with rosy mushrooms, and enormous truffles as black as ebony, obtained from the hotbed by special culture. Then came the rare and early specimens of the season,—green asparagus and varieties of lettuce.

In the midst of these marvels of the vegetable kingdom, which she herself had grouped in such a charming and picturesque scene, stood a beautiful young woman, elegantly attired in the costume of the peasants living in the neighbourhood of Paris.

"I present to you one of my nieces," said the doctor to his guests, "Juliette Dumont, cultivator of early fruits and vegetables, in the open field and hothouse at Montreuil-sous-Bois."

Then, turning to the young woman, the doctor added:

"My child, tell these gentlemen, please, how many gardeners you and your husband employ in your occupation."

"At least twenty men the whole time, my dear uncle."

"And their salary, my child."

"According to your advice, dear uncle, we give them the fixed price of fifty cents, and a part of our profit, in order to interest them as much as we are in the excellence of the work. We find this arrangement the best in the world, for our gardeners, interested as much as ourselves in the prosperity of our undertaking, labour with great zeal. So this year, their part in the income of the establishment has almost amounted to five francs a day."

"And about how much a year is the whole income, my child?"

"Thanks to our nurseries of fine fruit-trees, we make, dear uncle, from eighty to a hundred thousand francs a year."

"As much as that?" said the abbÉ.

"Yes, sir," replied the young woman; "and there are many houses in the neighbourhood of Paris and in the provinces whose incomes are larger than ours."

The canon, absorbed in the contemplation of fragrant golden fruits, truffles, and mushrooms, and the first vegetables of the season as luscious as they were rare, gave only a distracted attention to the economics of the conversation, and reluctantly accepted the doctor's invitation, who said to him:

"Let us pass to another specimen of the industry of my family, canon, for each one to-day displays his best wares. Now tell me if that jolly fellow over there is not a true artist."

And with these words Doctor Gasterini pointed out the second stall to his guests.

In the middle of an enclosure, carpeted with rushes and seaweeds, three large, white marble tables rose one above the other at an interval of one foot, gradually diminishing in size, like the basins of a fountain. On these marble slabs, covered with marine herbs, was a fine display of shells, crustaceans, and the choicest and most delicate sea-fish.

On the first slab was a sort of grotto made of shell-work, in which could be seen mussels and oysters from Marennes, Ostend, and Cancale, fattened at an immense expense in the parks. At the base of this slab lobsters, shrimps, and crabs were slowly crawling, or putting out a feeler from under their thick shells.

On the second slab, fringed with long seaweeds of a light green colour, were fish of the most diminutive size and exquisite flavour; sardines gleaming like silver, others of ultramarine blue, others still of bright red, and dainty grill fish with backs as white as snow, and rose-coloured bellies.

Finally, on the last and largest of these marble basins lay, here and there, veritable monsters of the sea, enormous turbots, gigantic salmon, formidable sturgeons, and prodigious tunnies.

A young man with sunburnt complexion, and frank, prepossessing countenance, who recalled the features of Captain Horace, smiled complaisantly at this magnificent exhibition of the products of the sea.

"Gentlemen, I present to you my nephew Thomas, patron of fisheries at Etretat," said Doctor Gasterini to his guests, "and you see that his nets do not bring back sand alone."

"I never saw anything in my life more admirable! I never saw more appetising fish!" exclaimed Dom DiÉgo, with enthusiasm. "One could almost eat them raw!"

"My boy," said Doctor Gasterini to his nephew, "these gentlemen would like to know how many sailors you patron fishers employ in your boats."

"Each boat employs eight or ten men and a cabin-boy," replied patron Thomas. "You see, my dear uncle, that makes quite a fine array of men, when you think of the number of fishing-boats on the coasts of France, from Bayonne to Dunkerque, and from Perpignan to Cannes."

"And what pay do these men get, my boy?" asked the doctor.

"We buy boats and nets in common, and divide the produce of the fish, and when a sailor is carried away by a big wave, his widow and children succeed to the father's portion; in a word, we work in an association, all for each, and each for all, and I assure you that when it is necessary to throw our nets or draw them in, to furl a sail or give it to the winds, there is no idler among us. All work with a good heart."

"Very well, my brave boy," said the doctor. "But, my lord canon," added he, turning to Dom DiÉgo, "as a true gourmand, you shall taste scalloped salmon with truffles, and sole minced in the Venetian style. Here we promote one of the noblest industries of the country, and it also contributes to the amelioration of the condition of our marine service. Let this thought, canon, take possession of your mind when you eat sturgeon baked in its own liquor, flavoured highly with Bayonne ham and oyster sauce, mingled with Madeira wine!"

At these words, Dom DiÉgo opened mechanically his large mouth and shut it, passing his tongue over his lips, with a sigh of greedy desire.

AbbÉ Ledoux, too discerning not to comprehend the doctor's intention, betrayed increasing resentment, but did not utter a word. The physician affected not to perceive the vexation of his guest. Taking Dom DiÉgo by the arm, he said, as he conducted him to the third stall:

"Honestly, my lord canon, did you ever see anything more beautiful, more charming, than this?"

"Never, oh, never!" exclaimed Dom DiÉgo, clasping his hands in admiration, "although the confections of my country are considered the finest in the world."

Nor was there, indeed, anything more captivating or more beautiful than this third stall, where was displayed in cups or porcelain dishes everything that the most refined epicureans could imagine in preserves, confections, and sweetmeats. In one place, crystallised sugar enveloped sparkling stalactites of the most beautiful fruits; in another, pyramids of all kinds, variegated with the brightest colours,—red with lozenges of rose, green with frozen pistachios shading into tints of lemon; farther on, oranges, limes, cedras, all covered with a snowy coating of sugar. Again, transparent jellies, made from Rouen apples, and currant jellies from Bar, shone with the prismatic brilliancy of ruby and topaz. Still farther, wide slabs of nougat from Marseilles, white as fresh cream, served as pedestals for columns of chocolate made in Bayonne, and apricot paste from Montpellier. Boxes of preserved fruit from Touraine, as fresh as if they had just been gathered, and in their gorgeous colouring resembling Florentine mosaics, charmed the eyes of the beholder.

A young and pretty woman, a niece of Dr. Gasterini, presided at this exhibition of sweets, and welcomed her uncle with an amiable smile.

"I present to you, gentlemen, my niece Augustine, one of the first confectioners in Paris, a true artist, who carves and paints in sugar, and her masterpieces are literally the crack dainties of Paris; but this specimen of her ability is nothing: in about a fortnight her shop on Vivienne Street will show a fine display, and I am sure you will see there some marvellous productions of her skill."

"Certainly, my dear uncle," replied the smiling mistress of the stall, "we will have the newest sweetmeats, the richest boxes, the most cleverly woven baskets of dainties, and the prettiest little bags, and for all these accessories we have a workshop where we employ thirty artisans, without counting, you understand, all the persons engaged in the laboratory."

"What is the matter with you, my dear abbÉ?" asked the doctor of this saintly man. "You seem to be quite gloomy. Are you vexed to see that gluttony controls all sorts of industries and productions which count for so much in the commercial progress of France? Zounds, man, you have not reached the end yet!"

"Well, well," replied the abbÉ, under constraint, "I see what you are coming to, you wicked man, but I will have a response for all. Go on, go on, I do not say a word, but I do not think the less."

"I am at your service for discussion, my dear abbÉ, but in the meanwhile, my lord canon," continued the doctor, turning to Dom DiÉgo, "you ought to be already partially convinced, since you see that you can, without remorse, enjoy the rarest fruits, the most delicate fish, and the most delicious sweetmeats. And more, as I have told you before, since you are a rich man, the consumption of these dainties is for you an imperative social duty, for the more you consume the greater impetus you give to production."

"And I realise that in my specialty I am at the height of this noble and patriotic mission!" exclaimed the canon, with enthusiasm. "You give me, dear doctor, the consciousness of duty performed."

"I did not expect less from the loftiness of your soul, my lord canon," replied the physician, "but a day will come when this kind mission of consumer that you accept with such proud interest will be more generally disseminated, and we will talk of that another time, but before passing on to the next stall I must ask your indulgence for my poor nephew Leonard, who presides at the exhibition you are going to see."

"Why my indulgence, doctor?"

"Because, you see, my nephew Leonard follows a rather dangerous calling, but he has followed the bent of his inclination. This devil of a boy has been reared like a savage. Put to nurse with a peasant woman living on the frontier of the forest of SÉnart, he was so puny for a long time that I allowed him to remain in the country until he was twelve years old. The peasant woman's husband was an arrant poacher, and my nephew had his bump for the chase as well developed as a hunting hound. You can judge what his bloodhound propensities would become under the tutelage of such a foster-parent. At the age of six years, sickly as he was, Leonard passed the whole day in the woods, busy with traps for rabbits, hares, and pheasants. At ten years the little man inaugurated his career as a hunter by killing a superb roebuck, one winter night, by the light of the moon. I was ignorant of all that. When, however, he was twelve years old, he seemed to have grown strong enough, and I placed him at school. Three days after, he scaled the walls which surrounded the boarding-school and returned to the forest of SÉnart. In a word, canon, nothing has been able to conquer the boy's passion for hunting. And, unfortunately, I confess that I became an accomplice by making him a present of a newly invented gun, so perfect and handy that it would make of you, my dear abbÉ, as accomplished a hunter as my nephew. He is not alone. Thousands of families live upon the superfluous game of rich proprietors who hunt, not from necessity, but because they find it an amusement. So, my lord canon, in tasting a leg of jerked venison, a hash of young partridge, or a thigh of roasted pheasant,—I could not do you the wrong of supposing you would prefer the wing,—you can assure yourself that you are contributing to the support of a number of poor households."

CHAPTER XIII.

The doctor, having concluded his eulogy upon the chase, approached his nephew's stall, and, with a significant gesture, pointed out to the canon and the abbÉ the finest exhibition of game that could be imagined.

The English gamekeepers, great masters of the art of grouping game, thus making real pictures of dead nature, would have recognised the superiority of Leonard.

Imagine a knotty, umbrageous tree six or seven feet high, standing in the middle of this stall. At the foot of the tree were grouped, on a bed of bright green fern, a young wild boar, a magnificent fallow deer, two years old, the proper age for venison, and two fine roebucks. These animals were lying in a restful position, the head gently bent over the shoulder, as if they were in their accustomed haunts in the depths of the forest. Long flexible branches of ivy fell from the lower boughs of the tree, among whose glossy leaves could be seen hares and rabbits, alternating with the wild geese of ashen-gray colour, wild ducks with green heads and feathers tipped with white, pheasants with scarlet eyes and necks of changeable blue and plumage shining like burnished copper; and silver-coloured bustards, a bird of passage quite rare in our climate. Here and there, branches of holly with purple berries, and the rosy bloom of heather mingled gracefully with the game disposed at different heights. Then came groups of woodcocks, gray partridges, red partridges, gold-coloured plovers, water-hens as black as ebony, with yellow beaks; upon the highest boughs the most delicate game was suspended,—quails, thrushes, fig-peckers, and rails, those kings of the plain; and finally, at the top of the tree, a magnificent heath-cock, caught, no doubt, in the mountains of Ardennes, seemed to open his broad wings of brown, touched with blue, and hover over this hecatomb of game.

Leonard, an agile, slender lad with a fawn-coloured eye, and frank, resolute face, contemplated his work with admiration, giving here and there a finishing touch, contrasting the red of a partridge with the green branch of a juniper-tree, or the shining ebony of a water-hen with the bright rose of the heather bloom.

"I have informed these gentlemen of your frightful trade, my bad boy," said Doctor Gasterini to his nephew Leonard, with a smile. "My lord canon and the saintly abbÉ will pray for the salvation of your soul."

"Oh, oh, my good uncle!" replied Leonard, good-naturedly, "I would rather have them pray for success in shooting the two finest deer, as company for the wild boar I have killed, whose head and fillets I present to you, uncle."

"Alas, alas, he is incorrigible!" said Doctor Gasterini, "and unhappily, my lord canon, you have no idea of the deliciousness of the flavour peculiar to the minced fillets and properly stuffed head of a year-old wild boar, seasoned À la Saint Hubert! Ah, my dear canon, how rich, how juicy! It was right to put this divine dish under the protection of the patron saint of the chase. But let us pass on," continued the doctor, preceding Dom DiÉgo, who was fascinated and dazzled by a display entirely novel to him, for such wealth of game is unknown in Spain.

"Oh, how grand is Nature in her creations!" said the canon; "what a marvellous scale of pleasures for the palate from the monstrous wild boar to the fig-pecker,—that exquisite little bird! Glory, glory to thee, eternal gratitude to thee," added he, in the manner of an ejaculatory prayer.

"Bravo, Dom DiÉgo!" cried the doctor, "now are you in the right."

"Now he is in materialism, in paganism, and the grossest pantheism," said the intractable abbÉ. "You will damn him, doctor, you will destroy his soul!"

"Still a little patience, my dear abbÉ," replied the doctor, walking toward another stall. "Soon, in spite of yourself, you will be convinced that I speak truly in extolling the excellence of gluttony, or rather you will think as I do, although you will take occasion to deny the evidence. Now, canon, you are going to see how this gluttony, so dear to you and me, becomes one of the causes of the progress of agriculture, the real basis of the prosperity of the country. And with this subject let me introduce to you my nephew Mathurin, a tiller of those salt meadows, which nourish the only beasts worthy of the gourmand, and which give him those invaluable legs of mutton, those unsurpassed cutlets, those fillets of wonderful beef which even England envies us. I present to you also my nephew Mathurin's wife, native of Le Mans, and familiar with that illustrious school of fattening animals, which produces those pullets and capons known as one of the glories and riches of France."

The shop of farmer Mathurin was undeniably less picturesque, less pretty, and by no means so showy as the others, but it had, by way of compensation, an attractive and dignified simplicity.

Upon large screens of willow branches, covered with thyme, sage, rosemary, tarragon, and other aromatic herbs, were displayed, in Herculean size, monstrous pieces of beef for roasting, fabulous sirloins, marvellous loins of veal, and those legs and saddles of mutton, and unparalleled cutlets, which have filled the hundred mouths of Rumour with the incomparable flavour of the famous beasts of the salt meadows.

Although raw, this delicious meat, surrounded with sweet and pungent herbs, was so delicate and of such a tempting red with its fat of immaculate whiteness, that the glances which Dom DiÉgo threw upon these specimens of bovine and ovine industry, were nothing less than carnivorous. Half hidden among clusters of water-cresses was a collection of pullets, capons, pure India cocks, and a species of fowl called tardillons, so round and fat and plump, and with a satin skin of such delicacy, that more than one pretty woman might have envied them.

"Oh, how pretty they are! how lovely they are!" stammered the canon. "Oh, it is enough to make one lose his head!"

"Ah, my dear canon," said the doctor, "pray, what will you say when the charming pallor of these pullets will turn into gold by the fires of the turnspit? when, distended almost to breaking by truffles made bluish under their delicate epidermis, this satin skin becomes rosy until it sheds the tear-drops of purple juice, watered by the slow distillation of its fat, as exquisitely delicate as the fat of a quail."

"Enough, doctor!" cried the canon, excited, "enough, I pray you, of braving scandal. I will attack one of those adorable pullets, without the least respect to its present condition."

"Calm yourself, my Lord Dom DiÉgo," said the doctor, smiling, "the dinner hour approaches and you can then pay your homage to two sisters of these adorable fowls."

Then, addressing his nephew Mathurin, the doctor said:

"My boy, these gentlemen think the produce of your farm very wonderful."

"The gentlemen are very kind, dear uncle," replied Mathurin, "but it is the cattle of one who chooses and loves the work! I do not fear the English or the Ardennois, upon the flavour of my beef, my veal, or my mutton from the salt meadows which make my reputation and my fortune. Because, you see, gentlemen, the prime object of agriculture is to make food, as we say. The cattle produce the manure, the manure the pasture, the pasture the fertility of the earth, and the fertility of the earth gives provision and pasturage to the cattle. All is bound together: the more the cattle is finely fattened, the better it is for the eater, according to our proverb; the better it sells, the better is the manure and consequently better is the culture. So with the poultry of Mathurin; without doubt, it is a great expense and requires many persons on the farm, for perhaps, gentlemen, you will not believe that to fatten one of these capons and one of these pullets as you see them here, we must open the beak and, fifteen or twenty times a day, put down the throat little balls of barley flour and milk, and that, too, for three months! But we get a famous product, because each capon brings us more than a weak mutton or veal. But immense care is necessary. So, with the advice of this dear uncle, whose advice is always good, we show every year at Christmas what we do on the farm. In the evening, upon the return of the cattle, the first two beeves which enter the stable, the finest or the poorest, no matter, chance decides it, are set aside; it is the same with the first six calves; afterward, when, the cages of the fowls are opened, the first dozen capons, the first dozen pullets, and the first dozen cocks which come out are set aside."

"What good is that?" asked the abbÉ. "What is done with these animals thus appointed by fate?"

"We make a lot of them and they are sold for the profit of the people on the farm. This profit is in addition to their fixed wages. You understand, gentlemen, that all my people are thus interested in the cattle and the poultry, which receive the best possible care, inasmuch as chance alone decides the lot of encouragement, as we call it. What is the result, gentlemen? It is that cattle and poultry become almost as much the property of my people as mine, because the finer the lot, the dearer it sells, and the larger the profit. Eh, gentlemen, would you believe that, thanks to the zeal, the care and diligence which my farm people give to the hope of this profit, I gain more than I give, because our interest is common, so that in improving the condition of these poor people, I advance my own."

"The moral of all this, my lord canon, is," said the doctor, smiling, "that it is necessary to eat as many fine sirloins as possible, as many tender cutlets from the salt meadows, and give oneself with equal devotion to the unlimited consumption of pullets, capons, and India cocks, so as to encourage this industry."

"I will try, doctor," said the canon, gravely, "to attain to the height of my duties."

"And they are more numerous than you think, Dom DiÉgo, because it depends upon you too to see that poor people are better clothed and better shod, and to this you can make especial contribution, by eating plenty of veal stewed À la Samaritan, plenty of beefsteak with anchovy sauce, and plenty of lambs' tongues À la d'Uxelle."

"Come now, doctor," said the canon, "you are joking!"

"You are rather slow in discovering that, Dom DiÉgo," said the abbÉ.

"I am speaking seriously," replied the doctor, "and I am going to prove it to you, Dom DiÉgo. What are shoes made of?"

"Of leather, doctor."

"And what produces this leather? Do not beeves, sheep, and calves? It is then evident that the more cattle consumed, the more the price of leather is diminished, and good health-promoting shoes become more accessible to the poor, who can afford only wooden shoes."

"That is true," said the canon, with a thoughtful expression. "It is certainly true."

"Now," continued the doctor, "of what are good woollen garments and good woollen stockings woven? Of the fleece of the sheep! Now, then, the greater the consumption of mutton, the cheaper wool becomes."

"Ah, doctor," cried the canon, carried away by a sudden burst of fine philosophy, "what a pity we cannot eat six meals a day! Yes, yes, a man could kill himself with indigestion for the greater happiness of his fellow men."

"Ah, Dom DiÉgo!" replied the doctor, in a significant tone. "Such perhaps is the martyrdom which awaits you!"

"And I shall submit to it with joy," cried the canon, enthusiastically. "It is sweet to die for humanity!"

AbbÉ Ledoux could no longer doubt that Dom DiÉgo was wholly beyond his influence, and manifested his vexation by angry glances, and disdainful shrugs of his shoulders.

"Oh, my God, doctor," suddenly exclaimed the canon, expanding his wide nostrils over and over again, "what is that appetising odour I scent there?"

"That is the exhibition of the industry pursued by my nephew Michel, my lord canon; these things are just out of the oven; see what a golden brown they have, how dainty they are!"

And Doctor Gasterini pointed out to the canon, the most marvellous specimens of pastry and bakery that one could possibly imagine: immense pies of game, of fish and of fowl, delicious morsels of baked shell-fish, fruit pies, little tarts with preserves and creams of all sorts, smoking cakes of every description, meringues with pineapple jelly, burnt almonds and sugared nuts, nougats mounted in shape of rocks, supporting temples of sugar candy, graceful ships of candy, whose top of fine spun sugar, resembling filigree work of silver, disclosed a dish of vanilla cakes, floating in rose-coloured cream whipped as light as foam. The list of wonderful dainties would be too long to enumerate, and Canon Dom DiÉgo stood before them in mute admiration.

"The dinner hour approaches, and I must go to my stoves, to give the finishing touch to certain dishes, which my pupils have begun," said Doctor Gasterini to his guest. "But to prove to you the importance of this appetising branch of industry, I will limit myself to a single question."

And addressing his nephew Michel, he said:

"My boy, tell the gentleman how much the stock of pastry you exhibit in the street of La Paix has cost."

"You ought to know, uncle," replied Michel, smiling affectionately at Doctor Gasterini, "for you advanced the money necessary for the expenditure."

"My faith, boy, you have reimbursed me long ago, and I have forgotten the figures. Let us see. It was—"

"Two hundred thousand francs, uncle. And I have done an excellent business. Besides, the house is good, because my predecessor made there twenty thousand a year income in ten years."

"Twenty thousand income!" cried Dom DiÉgo in astonishment, "twenty thousand!"

"Now you see, my lord canon, how capital is created by eating hot pies and plum cake with pistachios. But would you like to see something really grand? For this time we are discussing an industry which affects not only the interests of almost all the counties of France, but which extends over a great part of Europe and the East,—that is to say, Germany, Italy, Greece, Spain, and Portugal. An industry which puts in circulation an enormous amount of capital, which occupies entire populations, whose finest products sometimes reach a fabulous price,—an industry, in short, which is to gluttony what the soul is to the body, what mind is to matter. Wait, Dom DiÉgo, look and reverence, for here the youngest are already very old."

Immediately, through instinct, the canon took off his hat, and reverently bowed his head.

"I present to you my nephew Theodore, commissary of fine French and foreign wines," said the doctor to the canon.

There was nothing brilliant or showy in this stall; only simple wooden shelves filled with dusty bottles and above each shelf a label in red letters on a black ground, which made the brief and significant announcement:

"France.—Chambertin (comet); Clos-Vougeat, 1815; Volney (comet); Nuits, 1820; Pomard, 1834; ChÂblis, 1834; Pouilly (comet); ChÂteau Margot, 1818; Haut-Brion, 1820; ChÂteau Lafitte, 1834; Sauterne, 1811; Grave (comet); Roussillon, 1800; Tavel, 1802; Cahors, 1793; Lunel, 1814; Frontignan (comet); Rivesaltes, 1831; Foamy Ai, 1820; Ai rose, 1831; Dry Sillery (comet); Eau de vie de Cognac, 1757; Anisette de Bordeaux, 1804; Ratafia de Louvres, 1807.

"Germany.—Johannisberg, 1779; Rudesteimer, 1747; Hocheimer, 1760; Tokai, 1797; Vermouth, 1801; Vin de Hongrie, 1783; Kirchenwasser of the Black Forest, 1801.

"Holland.—Anisette, 1821; Curacao red, 1805; White Curacao, 1820; Genievre, 1799.

"Italy.—Lacryma Christi, 1803; Imola, 1819.

"Greece.—Chypre, 1801; Samos, 1813.

"Ionian Islands.—Marasquin de Zara.

"Spain.—Val de Penas, 1812; Xeres dry, 1809; Sweet Xeres, 1810; Escatelle, 1824; Tintilla de Rota, 1823; Malaga, 1799.

"Portugal.—Po, 1778.

"Island of Madeira.—Madeira, 1810; having made three voyages from the Indies.

"Cape of Good Hope.—Red and white and pale wines, 1826."

While Dom DiÉgo was looking on with profound interest, Doctor Gasterini said to his nephew:

"My boy, do you recollect the price at which some celebrated wine-cellars have been sold?"

"Yes, dear uncle," replied Michel, "the Duke of Sussex owned a wine-cellar which was sold for two hundred and eighty thousand francs; Lafitte's wine-cellar sold in Paris for nearly one hundred thousand francs; the one belonging to LagilliÈre, also in Paris, was sold for sixty thousand francs."

"Well, well, Dom DiÉgo," said Doctor Gasterini to his guest, "what do you think of it? Do you believe all this to be an abomination, as that wag AbbÉ Ledoux, who is observing us now with such a deceitful countenance, declares? Do you think the passion, which promotes an industry of such importance, deserves to be anathematised only? Think of the expenditure of labour in their transport and preservation that these wine-cellars must have cost. How many people have lived on the money they represent?"

"I think," said the canon, "that I was blind and stupid never to have comprehended, until now, the immense social, political, and industrial influence I have wielded by eating and drinking the choicest viands and wines. I think now that the consciousness of accomplishing a mission to the world in giving myself up to unbridled gluttony, will be a delicious aperient for my appetite,—a consciousness which I owe to you, and to you only, doctor. Oh, noble thinker! Oh, grand philosophy!"

"This is the science of gastronomy carried to insanity," said AbbÉ Ledoux. "It is a new paganism."

"My Lord DiÉgo," continued the doctor, "we will speak of the gratitude which you think you owe me, when we have taken a view of this last shop. Here is an industry which surpasses in importance all of which we have been speaking. The question is a grave one, for it turns the scale of gluttony's influence upon the equilibrium of Europe."

"The equilibrium of Europe!" said the canon, more and more dismayed. "What has eating to do with the equilibrium of Europe?"

"Go on, go on, Dom DiÉgo," said AbbÉ Ledoux, shrugging his shoulders, "if you listen to this tempter, he will prove to you things still more astonishing."

"I am going to prove, my dear abbÉ, both to you and to Dom DiÉgo, that I advance nothing but what is strictly true. And, first, you will confess, will you not, that the marine service of a nation like France has great weight in the balance of the destinies of Europe?"

"Certainly," said the canon.

"Well, what follows?" said the abbÉ.

"Now," pursued the doctor, "you will agree with me, that as this military marine service is strengthened or enfeebled, France gains or loses in the same proportion?"

"Evidently," said the canon.

"Conclude your argument," cried the abbÉ, "that is what I am waiting for."

"I will conclude then, my dear abbÉ, by saying that the more progress gluttony makes, the more accessible it becomes to the greatest number, the more will the military marine of France gain in strength and in influence, and that, my Lord Dom DiÉgo, I am going to demonstrate to you by begging you to read that sign."

And just above the door of this last stall, the only one not occupied by a niece or nephew of Doctor Gasterini, were the words "Colonial Provisions."

"Colonial provisions," repeated the canon aloud, looking at the physician with an interrogating air, while the abbÉ, more discerning, bit his lips with vexation.

"Do I need to tell you, lord canon," pursued the doctor, "that without colonies, we would have no merchant service, and without a merchant service, no navy for war, since the navy is recruited from the seamen in the merchant service? Well, if the lovers of good eating did not consume all the delicacies which you see exhibited here in small samples,—sugar, coffee, vanilla, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, rice, pistachios, Cayenne pepper, nutmeg, liquors from the islands, hachars from the Indies, what, I ask you, would become of our colonies, that is to say, our maritime power?"

"I am amazed," cried the canon, "I am dizzy; at each step I feel myself expand a hundred cubits."

"And, zounds! you are right, lord Dom DiÉgo," said the doctor, "for indeed, when, after having tasted at dessert a cheese frozen with vanilla, to which will succeed a glass of wine from Constance or the Cape, you take a cup of coffee, and conclude of course with one or two little glasses of liquor from the islands, flavoured with cloves or cinnamon, ah, well, you will further heroically the maritime power of France, and do in your sphere as much for the navy as the sailor or the captain. And speaking of captains, lord canon," added the doctor, sadly, "I wish you to observe that among all the shops we have seen, this one alone is empty, because the captain of the ship which has brought all these choice provisions from the Indies and the colonies dares not show himself, while he is under the cloud of your vengeance. I mean, canon, my poor nephew, Captain Horace. He alone has failed to come, to-day, to this family feast."

"Ah, the accursed serpent!" muttered the abbÉ, "how adroitly he goes to his aim; how well he knows how to wind this miserable brute, Dom DiÉgo, around his finger."

At the name of Captain Horace, the canon started, then relapsed into thoughtful silence.

CHAPTER XIV.

Canon Dom DiÉgo, after a few moments' silence, extended his fat hand to Doctor Gasterini, and, trembling with emotion, said:

"Doctor, Captain Horace cost me my appetite; you have restored it to me, I hope, for the remainder of my life; and much more, you have, according to your promise, proven to me, not by specious reasoning, but by facts and figures, that the gourmand, as you have declared with so much wisdom, accomplishes a high social and political mission in the civilised world; you have delivered me from the pangs of remorse by giving me a knowledge of the noble task that my epicureanism may perform, and in this sacred duty, doctor, I will not fail. So, in gratitude to you, in appreciation of you, I hope to acquit myself modestly by declaring to you that, not only shall I refuse to enter a complaint against your nephew, Captain Horace, but I cordially bestow upon him the hand of my niece in marriage."

"As I told you, canon," said the abbÉ, "I was very sure that once this diabolical doctor had you in his clutches, he would do with you all that he desired. Where now are the beautiful resolutions you made this morning?"

"AbbÉ," replied Dom DiÉgo, in a self-sufficient tone, "I am not a child; I shall know how to stand at the height of the rÔle the doctor has marked out for me."

Then turning to the doctor, he added:

"You can instruct me, sir, what to write; a reliable person will take my letter, and go immediately in your carriage to the convent for my niece, and conduct her to this house."

"Lord Dom DiÉgo," replied the doctor, "you assure the happiness of our two children, the joy of my declining days, and consequently your satisfaction and pleasure in the indulgence of your appetite, for I shall keep my word; I will make you dine every day better than I made you breakfast the other morning. A wing of this house will henceforth be at your disposal; you will do me the honour of eating at my table, and you see that, after the professions I have chosen for my nieces and nephews,—with the knowledge and taste of an epicure, as I have told you,—my larder and my wine-cellar will be always marvellously well appointed and supplied. I am growing old, I have need of a staff in my old age. Horace and his wife shall never leave me. I shall confide to them the collection of my culinary traditions, that they may transmit them from generation to generation; we shall all live together, and we shall enjoy in turn the practice and philosophy of gluttony, my lord canon."

"Doctor, I set my foot upon the very threshold of paradise!" cried the canon. "Ah, Providence is merciful, it loads a poor sinner like myself with blessings!"

"Heresy! blasphemy! impiety!" cried AbbÉ Ledoux. "You will be damned, thrice damned, as will be your tempter!"

"Come now, dear abbÉ," replied the doctor, "none of your tricks. Confess at once that I have convinced you by my reasoning."

"I! I am convinced!"

"Certainly, because I defy you—you and all like you, past, present, or future—to get out of this dilemma."

"Let us hear the dilemma."

"If gluttony is a monstrosity, then frugality pushed to the extreme ought to be a virtue."

"Certainly," answered the abbÉ.

"Then, my dear abbÉ, the more frugal a man is, according to your theory, the more deserving is he."

"Evidently, doctor."

"So the man who lives on uncooked roots, and drinks water only for the purpose of self-mortification, would be the type and model of a virtuous man."

"And who doubts it? You can find that celestial type among the anchorites."

"Admirable types, indeed, abbÉ! Now, according to your ideas of making proselytes, you ought to desire most earnestly that all mankind should approach this type of ideal perfection as nearly as possible,—a man inhabiting a cave and living on roots. The beautiful ideal of your religious society would then be a society of cave-dwellers and root-eaters, administering rough discipline by way of pastime."

"Would to God it might be so!" sternly answered the abbÉ; "there would be then as many righteous on the earth as there are men."

"In the first place that would deplete the census considerably, my dear abbÉ, and afterward there would be the little inconvenience of destroying with one blow all the various industries, the specimens of which we have just been admiring. Without taking into account the industry of weavers who make our cloth, silversmiths who emboss silver plate, fabricators of porcelain and glass, painters, gilders, who embellish our houses, upholsterers, etc., that is to say, society, in approaching your ideal, would annihilate three-fourths of the most flourishing industries, and, in other words, would return to a savage state."

"Better work out your salvation in a savage state," persisted the opinionated AbbÉ Ledoux, "than deserve eternal agony by abandoning yourself to the pleasures of a corrupt civilisation."

"What sublime disinterestedness! But then, why leave so generously these renunciations to others, these bitter, cruel privations, abandoning to them your part of paradise, and modestly contenting yourself with easy living here below, sleeping on eider-down, refreshing yourself with cool drinks, and comforting your stomach with warm food? Come, let us talk seriously, and confess that this is a veritable outrage, a veritable blasphemy against the munificence of creation, not to enjoy the thousand good things which she provides for the satisfaction of the creature."

"Pagans, materialists, philosophers!" exclaimed AbbÉ Ledoux, "who are not able to admit what, in their infernal pride, they are not able to comprehend!"

"Yes, credo quia absurdum. This axiom is as old as the world, my dear abbÉ, but it does not prevent the world's progress to the overthrow of your theories of privation and renunciation. Thank God, the world continually seeks welfare! Believe me, it is not necessary to reduce mankind to feeding on roots and drinking water; on the contrary, we ought to work to the end that the largest possible number may live, at least, upon good meats, good poultry, good fruit, good bread, and pure wine. Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has made man insatiable in demands for his body, and in the aspirations of his intelligence, and, if we think only of the wonderful things which man has made to gratify his five senses, for which nature has provided so bountifully, we are struck with admiration. We are then but obeying natural laws to labour with enthusiasm for the comfort and well-being of others, by the consumption and use of these provisions, and, as I told the canon, to do, each in his own sphere, as much as possible; in short, to enjoy without remorse, because—But the clock strikes six; come with me, my lord canon, and write the letter which is to bring your charming niece here. I will take a last look at my laboratory, where two of my best pupils have undertaken duties which I have entrusted to them. The dear abbÉ will await me in the parlour, for I intend to complete my programme and prove to him, by economic facts, not only the excellence of gluttony, but also of the other passions he calls the deadly sins."

"Very well, we will see how far you will push your sacrilegious paradoxes," said AbbÉ Ledoux, imperturbably. "Besides, all monstrosities are interesting to observe, but, doctor—doctor—three centuries ago, what a magnificient auto da fÉ they would have made of you!"

"A bad roast, my dear abbÉ! It would not be worth much more than the result of that hunt that you made in the glorious time of your fanaticism against the Protestants in the mountains of CÉvennes. Bad game, abbÉ. Well, I shall be back soon, my dear guests," said the doctor, taking his departure.

The canon having written to the mother superior of the convent, a man in the confidence of Doctor Gasterini departed in a carriage to fetch Senora Dolores Salcedo, and at the same time to inform Captain Horace and his faithful Sans-Plume that they could come out of their hiding-place.

A half-hour after the departure of this emissary, the canon, the abbÉ, as well as the nieces and nephews of Doctor Gasterini, and several other guests, met in the doctor's parlour.

CHAPTER XV.

Dolores and Horace soon arrived, within a short interval of each other, at the house of Doctor Gasterini. We leave the reader to imagine the joy of the two lovers and the expression of their tender gratitude to the doctor and the canon. The profound pity of the canon, the consciousness of assuring the happiness of his niece, were manifested by a hunger as rapacious as that of a tiger, as he whispered, with a doleful voice, in the doctor's ear:

"Alas, alas! will your other guests never come, doctor? Some people have such frightful egotism!"

"My guests will not delay much longer, my dear canon; it is half-past six, and at seven o'clock every one knows that I go to the table relentlessly."

In fact the invited guests of the doctor were not long in assembling, and a valet announced successively the following names:

"The Duke and Duchess of Senneterre-Maillefort!"

"Pride," whispered the doctor to the canon and abbÉ, who made a wry face as he recalled the misadventure of his protÉgÉ, who pretended to the hand of the rich heiress, Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

"How amiable you are, duchess, to have accepted my invitation!" said the doctor to Herminie, whom he advanced to welcome, kissing her hand respectfully. "If I must tell you, madame, I counted on you to decide on this dear pride, that M. de Maillefort, M. de Senneterre, and I admire so much in you."

"And how is that, my dear doctor?" said Gerald de Senneterre, affectionately. "I well know that I owe the happiness of my life to my wife's pride, but—"

"Our dear doctor is right," replied Herminie, smiling. "I am very proud of the friendship he has for us, and I avail myself of every opportunity to show him how much I appreciate his attachment, without even speaking of the eternal gratitude we owe him for his devoted care of my son and the daughter of Ernestine. I need not tell you, dear doctor, how much she regrets not being here this evening, but her indisposition keeps her at home, and dear Olivier and her uncle, M. de Maillefort, do not leave the interesting invalid one minute."

"There is nothing like these old sailors, these old soldiers of Africa, and these duellist marquises to make good nurses, without wishing to depreciate the terrible Madame BarbanÇon," replied the doctor, gaily. "Only, duchess, permit me to differ from you in the construction you have placed on my words. I wished to say that your own tendency to pride assured me beforehand that you will encourage in me that delightful sin, in making me proud to have you in my house."

"And I, doctor," said Gerald de Senneterre, smiling, "I declare that you encourage in us alarmingly the dainty sin of gluttony, because when one has dined at your house, he becomes a gourmand for ever!"

The conversation of the doctor, Herminie, and Gerald, to which the canon was giving close attention, was interrupted by the voice of the valet, who announced:

"M. Yvon Cloarek!"

"Anger," whispered the doctor to the canon, advancing to meet the old corsair, who, notwithstanding his great age, was still hale and vigorous.

"Long live the railroads! for I come this instant from Havre, my old comrade, to assist at the anniversary of your birthday," said Yvon, cordially grasping the doctor's hands, "and to come here I have left Sabine, Sabinon, and Sabinette,—names that the old centenarian, Segoffin, my head artilleryman, has given to my granddaughter and great-granddaughter, for I am a great-grandfather, you know."

"Zounds! old comrade, and I hope you will not stop at that!"

"And so my son-in-law, OnÉsime, whom you ushered into life thirty years ago, charged me to remember him to you. And here I am!"

"Could you fail to be at our annual reunions, Yvon, my brave comrade, I should have one of those magnificent attacks of anger which used to possess you."

Then turning to the canon and the abbÉ, the doctor presented Yvon, saying:

"This is Captain Cloarek, one of our oldest and most illustrious corsairs, the famous hero of the brig Hellhound, which played wonderful tricks at the end of the Empire."

"Ah, captain," said the canon, "in 1812 I was at Gibraltar, and I had the honour of often hearing you and your ship cursed by the English."

"And do you know, my dear canon, to what admirable sin Captain Cloarek owes his glory, and the services he rendered to France in the victorious cruises he made against the English? I am going to tell you, and my old friend will not contradict me. Glory, success, riches,—he owes all to anger."

"To anger?" exclaimed the abbÉ.

"To anger!" said the canon.

"The truth is, gentlemen," modestly answered Cloarek, "that the little I have done for my country I owe to my naturally tremendous anger."

"M. and Madame Michel," announced the valet.

"Indolence," said the doctor to the canon and the abbÉ, approaching Florence and her husband,—Michel having married Madame de Lucenay after the death of M. de Lucenay, victim of a balloon ascension he had attempted from Mount Chimborazo, in company with Valentine.

"Ah, madame," said Doctor Gasterini, gallantly kissing the hand of Florence, "how well I know your good-will when you tear yourself away from your self-indulgent, sweet habits of idleness, to give me the pleasure of having you at my house before your departure for your beautiful retreat in Provence."

"Why, my good doctor," replied the young woman, smiling, "do you forget that indolent people are capable of everything?"

"Even of making the incredible effort of coming to dine with one of their best friends," added Michel, grasping the doctor's hand.

"And to think," replied Doctor Gasterini, "just to think that several years ago I was consulted for the purpose of curing you of this dreadful sin of indolence. Happily the limitations of science, and especially the profound respect I feel for the gifts of the Creator, prevented my attempt upon the ineffable supineness with which you are endowed."

And designating AbbÉ Ledoux by a glance of his eye, the doctor added:

"And, madame, AbbÉ Ledoux, whom I have the honour of presenting to you, considers me, at this hour even, a pagan, a dreadful idolater. Be good enough to rehabilitate me in his opinion, by informing this saintly man that you and your husband have, in the midst of profound and invincible idleness, exercised an activity without bounds, an inconceivable energy, and a sagacity which have secured for both of you an honourable independence."

"For the honour of indolence, respected abbÉ," replied Florence, smiling, "I am obliged to do violence to my own modesty, as well as that of my husband, by confessing that the dear doctor has spoken the truth."

"M. Richard!" announced the valet.

"Avarice," whispered the doctor to the canon and the abbÉ, while the father of Louis Richard, the happy husband of Marietta, advanced to meet him.

"Is this M. Richard?" said the abbÉ, in a low voice to Doctor Gasterini, "the founder of those schools and houses of retreat established at Chaillot, and so admirably organised?"

"It is he, himself," replied the doctor, extending his hand to the old man, as he said, "Welcome, good Richard, the abbÉ was just speaking to me of you."

"Of me, dear doctor?"

"Or, if you prefer it, of your wonderful endowments at Chaillot."

"Ah, doctor," said the old man, "you must render unto CÆsar the things that are CÆsar's,—my son is the founder of those charitable institutions."

"Let us see, my good Richard," replied the doctor, "if you had not been as thorough a miser as your friend, Ramon, your worthy son would not have been able to make your name blessed everywhere as he has done."

"As to that, doctor, it is the pure truth, and, too, I confess to you that there is not a day I do not thank God, from this fact, for having made me the most avaricious of men."

"And how is your son's friend, the Marquis of Saint-HÉrem?"

"He came to visit us yesterday with his wife. His household is the very pearl of establishments. He invited us to visit his castle just erected in the valley of Chevreuse. They say that no palace in Paris equals it in splendour. It seems that for three years fifteen hundred artisans have been at work on it, without counting the terraces of the park, which alone have employed the force of four villages, and, as the marquis pays handsomely, you can conceive what comfort has been spread abroad through the neighbourhoods around his castle."

"Well, then, my good Richard, you confess that, if the uncle of the marquis had not had the same avarice which you possessed, this generous fellow would not have been able to give work to so many families."

"That is true, my dear doctor, so, under the name of Saint-Ramon, as the marquis has jestingly christened his uncle, the memory of this famous miser is blessed by everybody."

"It is inconceivable, abbÉ," said the canon, "the doctor must be right. I am confounded with what I hear and with what I see. We are actually going to dine with the seven deadly sins."

"M. Henri David!" said the valet.

At this name the countenance of the doctor became grave; he walked up to David, took both his hands with effusive tenderness, and said:

"Pardon me for having insisted upon your acceptance of this invitation, my dear David, but I promised my excellent friend and pupil, Doctor Dufour, who recommended you to me, to try to divert you during your short sojourn in Paris."

"And I feel the need of these diversions, I assure you, sir. Down there our life is so calm, so regular, that hours slip away unperceived; but here, lost in the turmoil of this great city to which I have become a stranger, I feel these paroxysms of painful sadness, and I thank you a thousand times for having provided for me such an agreeable distraction."

Henri David was talking thus to the doctor when seven o'clock sounded.

The canon uttered a profound sigh of satisfaction as he saw the steward open the folding doors of the dining-room.

CONCLUSION.

At the moment the guests of the doctor were about to enter the dining-room, the valet announced:

"Madame the Marquise de Miranda."

"Luxury," whispered the doctor to the abbÉ. "I feared she might fail us."

Then offering his arm to Madeleine, more beautiful, more bewitching than ever, the doctor said, as he conducted her to the dining-room:

"I had just begun to despair of the good fortune you had promised me, madame. Listen to me, at my age the happiness of seeing you here again you must know is inexpressible. Ah, if I were only fifty years younger!"

"I would take you for my cavalier, my dear doctor," said the marquise, laughing extravagantly; "I think we have been friends, at the least estimate, for fifty years."

We will not undertake to enumerate the wonders of the doctor's elegant dining-room. We will limit ourselves to the menu of this dinner,—a menu which each guest, thanks to a delicate forethought, found under his napkin, between two dozen oysters, one from Ostend and the other from Marennes. This menu was written on white vellum, and encased in a little framework of carved silver leaves enamelled with green. Each guest thus knew how to reserve his appetite for such dishes as he preferred. Let us add only that the size of the table and the dining-room was such that, instead of the narrow and inconvenient chairs which force you to eat, so to speak, with the elbows close to the body, each guest, seated in a large and comfortable chair, the feet on a soft carpet, had all the latitude necessary for the evolutions of his knife and fork. Here is the menu which the canon took with a hand trembling with emotion and read religiously.

MENU FOR DINNER.

Four Soups.—Soup À la CondÉ, rich crab soup with white meat of fowl, soup with kouskoussou, consommÉ with toast.

Four RelevÉs of Fish.—Head of sturgeon À la Godard, pieces of eel À l'Italienne, salmon À la Chambord, turbot À la Hollandaise.

Four By-plates.—Croquettes À la royale, morsels of baked lobster tail, soft roe of carps À la Orly, little pies À la reine.

Four Large Dishes.—Quarter of pickled wild boar, ragout of beef from salt meadows, quarter of veal À la Monglas, roast beef from salt meadows.

Sixteen EntrÉes.—Scalloped roebuck À l'Espagnole, fillet of lamb À la Toulouse, slices of duck with orange, sweetbreads with jelly, sweetmeats of beccaficos À la d'Uxelle, meat pie À la Nesle, macaroni À la Parisienne, hot ortolan pie, fillets of pullet from Mans, woodcocks with choicest seasoning, quails on toast, rabbit cutlets À la marÉchale, veal liver with rice, partridge with black pudding À la Richelieu, foie gras À la ProvenÇal, fillet of plover À la Lyonnaise.

Intermediate.—Punch À la Romaine.

Birds.—Pheasants sauced and stuffed with truffles, fowl dressed with slices of bacon, turkey stuffed with truffles from PÉrigord, grouse.

Ten Side-dishes.—Cardoons with marrow, artichokes À la Napolitaine, broiled mushrooms, PÉrigord truffles with champagne wine, white truffles of Piedmont with olive oil, celery À la FranÇaise, lobster stewed with Madeira wine, shrimps stewed with kari from the Indies, lettuce with essence of ham, asparagus and peas.

Two Large Confections.—Candy ship in rose-coloured cream, temple of sugar candy with pistachios.

Chestnuts with frozen apricots, pineapple jelly with fruits, Bavarian cheese frozen with raspberries, whipped cream with cherry jelly, French cream with black coffee, preserved strawberries.

After reading this menu, the canon, carried away with enthusiasm, and forgetting, we must confess, all conventionalities, rose from his chair, took his knife in one hand and his fork in the other, and, stretching out his arm, said, in a solemn voice:

"Doctor, I swear I will eat it all!"

And in fact the canon did eat all.

And still he had an appetite.

It is useless to say that the exquisite wines, whose delicious ambrosia the canon had already tested, circulated in profusion.

At dessert, Doctor Gasterini rose, holding in his hand a little glass of iced wine of Constance, and said:

"Ladies, I am going to offer an infernal toast,—a toast as diabolical as if we were joyously banqueting among the damned in the lowest depth of the dining-room in the kingdom of Satan."

"Oh, oh, dear, amiable doctor!" exclaimed all with one voice, "pray what is this infernal toast?"

"To the seven deadly sins!" replied the doctor. "And now, ladies, permit me to express to you the thought which this toast inspires in me. I promised AbbÉ Ledoux, who has the honour of being seated by the Marquise de Miranda,—I promised the abbÉ, I repeat, this man of mind, of experience, and learning, but incredulous,—to prove to him by positive, incontrovertible facts, the good that can be achieved in certain instances, and in a certain measure by these tendencies, instincts, and passions which we name the seven deadly sins. The whole problem is to regulate them wisely, and to draw from them the best that is possible. Now, as the Duchess of Senneterre-Maillefort, Madame Florence Michel, and the Marquise de Miranda have for a long time honoured me with their friendship,—as MM. Richard, Yvon Cloarek, and Henri David are my good old friends, I hope that, for the triumph of sound ideas, my amiable guests will have the grace to aid me in rehabilitating these capital sins, that by their excess, owing to the absence of proper control, have been absolutely condemned, and in converting this poor abbÉ to their possible utility. He sins only through ignorance and obstinacy, it is true, but he does not the less blaspheme these admirable means and sources of energy, happiness, and wealth, which the inexhaustible munificence of the Creator has bestowed upon his creatures. Now, as nothing is more charming than a conversation at dessert, among men of mind, I beg that, in the interest of our unfortunate brother, AbbÉ Ledoux, the representatives of these various sins will tell us all that they owe to them, both in their own careers and in the success of others."

The proposition of Doctor Gasterini, unanimously welcomed, was carried out with perfect grace and uninterrupted joyousness. Henri David, who was the last but one to speak, interested the guests keenly in recounting the prodigies of devotion and generosity that Envy had inspired in Frederick Bastien, and even tears flowed at the account of the death of that noble child and that of his angelic mother. Happily the recital of Luxury concluded the dinner, and the lively marquise made the whole company laugh, when speaking of her adventure with the archduke, whose passion she did not share. She said that it was easier to induce the Pope's legate to masquerade as a Hungarian hussar than to make an Austrian archduke comprehend that man was born for liberty. Moreover, the marquise announced that she contrived a plan of campaign against the old Radetzki, and finally engaged in transforming him into a coal merchant, and making him one of the chief instruments in the liberation of Italy.

"But this snow, dear and beautiful marquise," said the doctor to her, in a low voice, after this recital, "this armour of ice, which renders you apparently disdainful to those whom you inflame, is it never melted by so many fires?"

"No, no, my good doctor," replied the marquise, softly, with a melancholy smile; "the memory of my blond archangel, my ideal and only love, keeps the depths of my heart pure and fresh, like a flower under the snow."

"And I had remorse!" cried the canon, in a transport of delight over his easy digestion. "I was miscreant enough to feel remorse for the indulgence of my appetite."

"Instead of remorse, an excellent dinner gives, on the contrary, even to the most selfish hearts, a singular inclination to charity," replied the doctor, "and if I did not fear I should be anathematised by our critical and dear AbbÉ Ledoux, I would add that, from the point of view of charity,—from that standpoint, gluttony would have the happiest results."

"Go on," replied the abbÉ, shrugging his shoulders, as he sipped a little glass of exquisite cream, flavoured with cinnamon of Madame Amphoux, 1788. "You have already uttered so many absurdities, dear doctor, that one more or less—"

"It depends not on chimeras, utopian schemes, but upon facts, palpable, practical, to-day and to-morrow," interrupted the doctor, "facts which can pour every day considerable sums in the coffers of the benevolent enterprises of Paris! Is that an absurdity?"

"Speak, dear doctor," said the guests, unanimously; "speak! We are all listening to you."

"This is what happened," replied the doctor; "and I regret that the thought did not occur to me sooner. Three days ago I was walking on one of the boulevards, about six o'clock in the evening. Surprised by a heavy shower, I took refuge in a cafÉ, one of the most fashionable restaurants in Paris. I never dine anywhere else than at home, but to keep myself in countenance, and satisfy my desire for observation, I ordered a few dishes which I did not touch, and, while I was waiting for the rain to stop, I amused myself by observing the persons who were dining. There could be a book, and a curious book, too, written upon the different shades of manner, character, and social and other conditions of people who reveal themselves unconsciously at the solemn hour of dinner. But that is not the question. I made this observation only, that each man, as he seated himself at the table, with an air indifferent, anxious, cheerful, or morose, as the case might be, seemed, in proportion as he dined upon excellent dishes, to yield to a sort of beatitude and inward happiness, which was reflected upon his countenance, that faithful mirror of the soul. As I was seated near one of the windows, I followed with my eye each one as he left the cafÉ. Outside the door stood a pale, ragged child, shivering under the cold autumn rain. Ah, well, my friends,—I say it to the praise of gourmands,—almost every one of those who had dined the best gave alms to the poor little hungry, trembling creature. Now, without speaking ill of my neighbour, I ask, would these same persons, fasting, have been as charitable? And I venture to affirm that the little beggar would have met with a harsh denial if he had asked them when they entered the cafÉ, instead of waiting until they came out."

"Is this pagan going to tell us that charity owes its birth to gluttony?" cried AbbÉ Ledoux.

"To reply successfully, dear abbÉ, it would be necessary for me to enter into a physiological discussion upon the subject of the influence of the physical on the moral," said the doctor. "I will tell you one simple thing. You have boxes for the poor at the doors of your churches. No one more than myself respects the charity of those faithful souls who put their rich or modest offering in these sacred places; but why not place alms-boxes in fashionable cafÉs, where the rich and the happy go to satisfy their refined tastes? Why not, I say, place your poor-boxes in some conspicuous spot, with the simple inscription, 'For the hungry?'"

"The doctor is right!" shouted the guests. "It is an excellent idea; every great establishment would show large receipts every day."

"And the little establishments also," replied the doctor. "Ah, believe me, my friends, he who has made a modest repast, as well as the opulent diner, feels that compassion which is born of a satisfied want or pleasure, when he thinks of those who are deprived of the satisfaction of this want or this pleasure. Now, then, let me resume: If all the proprietors of these restaurants and cafÉs would follow my counsel, having an understanding with the members of benevolent enterprises, and would place in some conspicuous spot their poor-boxes, with the words, or others equivalent, 'For the hungry,' I am convinced, whether from charity, pride, or respect for humanity, you would see alms rain down in them to overflowing. For the most selfish man, who has spent a louis or more for his dinner, feels, in spite of himself, a painful sense of benefits, a sort of bitter after-taste, at the sight of those who suffer. A generous alms absolves him in his own eyes, and from a hygienic point of view, dear canon, this little act of charity would give him a most happy digestion."

"Doctor, I confess myself vanquished!" cried AbbÉ Ledoux. "I drink, if not to the seven deadly sins in general, at least, in particular to gluttony."

THE END.

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