[Sidenote: PLAYING TRUANT]
I have said that it is not on memory’s record that the whilom schoolboy,
now in his mediæval student mood, failed to rise at the appointed clock
crow. Of a truth he rarely had less than his eight hours good sleep,
glad enough as he was to retire to rest at nine—“curfew time.” But it
must be admitted that on one occasion or two he succumbed to the
weakness of compounding with his studious resolutions. The French
equivalent of playing truant is _faire l’école buissonière_—a taking
term, redolent of the allurement of hedgerows and free green fields. And
it is the memory of one of these _écoles buissonières_—or rather, in
this case, _écoles riveraines_—that, through the usual devious paths,
brings me back to the forgotten question of _soupe à l’oignon_.
It must have been a very early day in May, for at a quarter before five,
when the imperative rattle was sprung, sun-rays were just beginning to
dart between the curtains. The birds in the Champs Elysées kept up their
concert through the morning silence of the gardens with more persistent
enthusiasm than usual. And on looking out of window, under such a pure
sky, the out-of-door world looked quite extraordinarily inviting. It
would have been folly to decline such an invitation!
The “Short History,” opened at a chapter of the Hundred Years War, was
left for the nonce undisturbed: the scholar sallied forth to roam under
the tall trees of the _Cours la Reine_, intent, no doubt, on returning
after a short stroll. But there is in the early morning hours,
especially on such a morning, the spell of the “invitation to the road.”
The river-side, so fresh and green, and the unending line of giant plane
trees on the quays, as he swung along to meet the sun, still low behind
the Isle of Notre Dame, drew him on and on. He decided only to return
for breakfast and Gilchrist. Then he bethought himself there would be
time to stroll through those populous quarters which, unlike the
residential districts, were still in many ways the Paris of the Middle
Ages. That was the Paris which held for him then so potent an
interest—the Paris within the walls of Charles VI; the town of Armagnacs
and Burgundians, which had been governed by Bedford for his infant
English King; the crowded space, in short, between the old Louvres and
the new Bastille, which had been kept in order by the tramping of
English men-at-arms. One inquisitive excursion led to another—nearly two
hours had been spent in delightful ferreting; there was no time to
return home for breakfast before the Gilchrist-ward ascent. Meanwhile a
positively wolfish hunger had begun to assert itself. The scholar
“searched his pouch.” This was quite in mediæval style; and what was
decidedly in the same style was the discovery of but two poor deniers
for all asset! His usual pocket-money allowance was then reposing on the
bed-side table, far away, save for these two pennies luckily forgotten
in a waistcoat pocket.
This discovery was made, ruefully enough, as he was looking about in the
vicinity of Saint Eustache for some respectable _restaurateur_ wherein
to obtain the matutinal coffee. But two deniers—twopence, _vingt
centimes_—would never purchase breakfast at any table under a roof. What
the devil...! Well, twopence in this workmen’s district would buy bread
enough, anyhow, to appease the sharpest-set morning appetite. Saint
Eustache, as every one knows, is close to the Halles Centrales, the
great food emporium of Paris—a kind of combined Smithfield,
Billingsgate, Covent Garden, and Leadenhall Market. The now frantic
owner of the two pence was darting about the galleries in search of the
first bread-stall, when he was arrested by a floating savour, truly
ambrosial. As he stopped and involuntarily, if quite obviously, sniffed,
a tempting voice rose beside him, engagingly familiar: “_Oui, elle est
bonne, ce matin. Tu en veux, beau garçon?_” And so saying, a fat smiling
_dame de la Halle_, with an alert eye to business, plunged a ladle into
a deep iron _marmite_ and filled a generous-sized white bowl, something
a trifle under a pint in capacity, with a steaming brown pottage, that
in the circumstances was positively irresistible: “_Combien, la mère?_”
asked the truant scholar, falling into the speech suitable to the place,
and fingering the two modest coins with doubt and anxiety, even as might
a ravening Villon, a destitute Gringoire.
[Illustration: woman holding steaming bowl]
“_Combien, mon p’tit gros? Mais un sou, toujours!—Et au fromage_,”
changing her tone to mock deference as one addressing a client of
importance, “_au fromage, dix centimes_, _mon prince!—Mais, bernique!
n’y en a plus!_”—she added, laughing complacently and tossing her head
in the direction of a second cauldron that lay empty on her left.
The more luxurious cheese pottage being “off,” and time of importance
‹it would, volunteered the culinary Madame Angot, take ten minutes to
prepare the next potful› the famished wanderer proffered his penny and
received his grateful bowl together with some eight inches of “long
bread” in lieu of his half-denier change. And, leaning against a pillar,
he set himself to the enjoyment of what, as I have remarked before, was
the best breakfast of his life.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: SAVOURY POTTAGE]
Hunger is the finest of all possible sauces—a truism even more than a
proverb. The snatched crust, the draught of clear water in the palm of
the hand, at some dire moment of want, is more welcome than the most
cunning dish, the rarest cup in the easy tenor of life. But the plain
bread and the clear water, however eagerly seized, must ever savour of
hardship. Now this halfpenny worth of _soupe à l’oignon_ bore none of
that character, for all that, as far as nutriment went, it consisted of
naught but bread and water. It had all the attributes of a civilized
meal: it was hot, savoury, immediately comforting.
As I disposed of it at leisure—for it was scalding, and had, besides, in
an Epicurean way, to be husbanded as a relish to my portion of simple
loaf—I watched the rotund but brisk dame prepare another instalment of
the superior, or penny, brew against the next influx of customers. The
first _clientèle_ ‹it appeared in course of friendly if fitful
conversation› came about six o’clock—journeymen without a _ménagère_ at
home, on their way to their day’s task; or night-workers in the Halles,
on their way to morning sleep. The next one would begin soon—clerks,
workgirls, and small employés who have to be at their post about eight.
Then the demand for the penny bowl would rise afresh about noon.
To one who was even then tasting the full value of the finished product
the method of production had the interest of actuality, and was
otherwise enlightening. And, _pardi!_ it is worth recording, as an
instance of what could be done with raw material to the value of twelve
sous—less than sixpence—to provide twenty people with a savoury dishful
of broth and leave a distinct turnover of profit.
These—as far as I could judge—were about a score of medium-sized onions
of the more pungent kind ‹twopence, four sous or four cents›; half a
pound or thereabouts of butter, salt butter it is true, but your
Parisian insists wherever he can upon _cuisine au beurre_ ‹six sous›; a
ladle-full of flour ‹say one farthing, half a cent›; something like two
sous’ worth of stale bread, baker’s shop remnants. Leaving the cost of
firing out of consideration—and in thrifty ingenious French hands it
would be small—the return would be like thirty per cent. on the outlay.
As for the technique of the brewing, it was simple but elegant. The
sliced onions, fried in the butter at the bottom of the iron pot to a
pleasing sunset colour under the watchful eye of the matron, were at the
right moment powdered with the allowance of flour and stirred until the
suitable appetizing brown was achieved—“The flour is just to thicken the
_bouillon_, you understand, my lad,” the benevolent operator was pleased
to comment, noticing inquisitiveness.—Then, at the precise moment of
alchemic projection, the sliced shreds of bread were precipitated in the
caldron, and gently turned round with a wooden spoon to let them take
unto themselves all the unction of the butter, all the essence of the
succulent bulbs. And presently the whole thing was drowned under a
cataract of scalding hot water ‹some two gallons›. After a bubble or two
of boiling the combination was completed and the savoury caldron was set
aside upon a nest of smouldering ashes, ready against the next breakfast
seeker.
* * * * *
And the _escholier_, having absorbed the last crumb and the last
spoonful, hastened, greatly refreshed, by every conceivable short cut to
his heights of Montmartre—_Mons Martyrum_, by the way, some etymologists
insist on dubbing, in opposition to the _Mons Martis_ theory, in regard
that it was the site of the martyrdom of St. Denis, the French “Champion
of Christendom.”
[Sidenote: VIRGIL ON “DOGGIES”]
He was a trifle late—no doubt as a result of short cuts—and Mr.
Gilchrist proportionately stern, just at first. But the dear
enthusiastic teacher gradually mellowed under the influence of that
morning’s reading—the “Georgics,” most enchanting of all Garden Talk
volumes. The old scholar’s geniality had completely returned by the time
we reached that “doggy” passage of the Third Book beginning with “_Nec
tibi cura canum fuerit postrema_.”
I can still see him smiling confidently at me over the line, “Let not
thy dogs be the last of thy cares....” There was something prophetic
about it!
* * * * *
Here, two score of years later, as I dream of the past, lies Arabella
stretched by the fire, now and again heaving her great sighs of comfort.
Bettina, curled at my feet, looks up adoringly at the master and wags
her stump of tail whenever she meets his eye. As for Prince Loki, he has
commandeered the best deep armchair, where he lies flat on his back,
with front paws folded upon his bosom, and hind legs stretched out in
abandoned beatific fashion, snoring melodiously.... _Cura canum
postrema_, indeed!
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