(_With apologies to the P-ll M-ll G-z-tte_)
It had been my good fortune to give to Mademoiselle Faustine, a charming
little actress, a tip for the Welter Plate last spring. What more
natural than that I should ask her to give me a dinner as some slight
return? She readily accepted, and asked me to name the day. Glancing at
the sixth volume of my engagement book, I found my first vacant date was
June 18, '97. This was fortunate, as it is hardly possible--except at
Voisin's--to get a decent dinner unless you order it a year in advance.
"Where shall we dine?" asked Faustine.
"There is only one place where people _do_ dine," I answered, a little
reproachfully. "The Bon Marché. I will order the dinner."
So the place and the date were fixed.
* * * * *
As Faustine was a quarter of an hour late--I had not seen her since our
arrangement--I waited in the alabaster portico of the Bon Marché,
chatting amiably to the courteous commissionaire, an old comrade of mine
in the Wimbledon days. Jules, the courteous _chef_, was _au désespoir_.
Why had I not given him more notice? Madame was fifteen minutes late. If
he had only known! In a year and fifteen minutes it is possible to cook
a dinner. In a year--no. I tried to calm the worthy fellow--an old ally
of mine in the Crimean war. In vain; he complained the sardines were
spoiling. So I went into the dining-room, nodding courteously to eight
princes of the blood, neither of whom appeared, for the moment, to
recognise me.
As I seated myself, the entire staff, headed by a brass band, brought me
my _sardines à l'huile_. These are a _specialité_ of the house, and are
never--should never be, at least--eaten with the tin. The _potage à la
potasse_ was quite excellent. I congratulated the courteous _chef_,
pointing out to him the desirability of mixing, sometimes, a little
anti-pyrine into the potassium--both drugs far too rarely used in modern
cookery. Then came the question of wine. This I solved for the moment
by ordering two Jeroboams of Stereoscopic Company et Fils; a _cuvée_ of
'80, absolutely _reservée_ for my own use. As I had engaged the entire
staff of waiters, a crown prince, who was entertaining one of our
leading bicyclists, rose to leave, with his guest. I smiled and nodded
to them as they passed, which appeared to hasten their departure.
The _moulin à vent_ was delicious, but the _dindon décousu_ I could not
pass. No self-respecting _gourmet_ will pass everything at a dinner.
Gontran, the kindly _maître d'hôtel_, was almost in tears, but I
consoled him by observing that the ostriches were cooked to a turn, and
the _bombe glacée à l'anarchiste_ faultless.
But my hostess? Where was she? Where was Mademoiselle Faustine? I had
quite forgotten her! I beckoned to Hagenbock, the press representative
of the restaurant, who informed me she had been dead eight months! I,
who read nothing but menus, had omitted to notice this in the papers. I
was greatly pained. The shock unnerved me--I could eat no more. Besides,
who was now to pay the bill?