FullReads

Deux Releves.

Le Chapeau-a-trois-cornes farci a la Robespierre.
Le Tire-botte a l’Odalisque.

Six Entrees.
Saute de Hannetons a l’Epingliere.
Cotelettes a la Megatherium.
Bourrasque de Veau a la Palsambleu.
Laitances de Carpe en goguette a la Reine Pomare.
Turban de Volaille a l’Archeveque de Cantorbery.”

And so on with the entremets, and hors d’oeuvres, and the rotis, and the releves.

“Madame will see that the dinners are quite simple,” said M. Cavalcadour.

“Oh, quite!” said Rosa, dreadfully puzzled.

“Which would Madame like?”

“Which would we like, mamma?” Rosa asked; adding, as if after a little thought, “I think, sir, we should prefer the blue one.” At which Mrs. Gashleigh nodded as knowingly as she could; though pink or blue, I defy anybody to know what these cooks mean by their jargon.

“If you please, Madame, we will go down below and examine the scene of operations,” Monsieur Cavalcadour said; and so he was marshalled down the stairs to the kitchen, which he didn’t like to name, and appeared before the cook in all his splendor.

He cast a rapid glance round the premises, and a smile of something like contempt lighted up his features. “Will you bring pen and ink, if you please, and I will write down a few of the articles which will be necessary for us? We shall require, if you please, eight more stew-pans, a couple of braising-pans, eight saute-pans, six bainmarie-pans, a freezing-pot with accessories, and a few more articles of which I will inscribe the names.” And Mr. Cavalcadour did so, dashing down, with the rapidity of genius, a tremendous list of ironmongery goods, which he handed over to Mrs. Timmins. She and her mamma were quite frightened by the awful catalogue.

“I will call three days hence and superintend the progress of matters; and we will make the stock for the soup the day before the dinner.”

“Don’t you think, sir,” here interposed Mrs. Gashleigh, “that one soup–a fine rich mock-turtle, such as I have seen in the best houses in the West of England, and such as the late Lord Fortyskewer–“

“You will get what is wanted for the soups, if you please,” Mr. Cavalcadour continued, not heeding this interruption, and as bold as a captain on his own quarter-deck: “for the stock of clear soup, you will get a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham.”

“We, munseer,” said the cook, dropping a terrified curtsy: “a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham.”

“You can’t serve a leg of veal at a party,” said Mrs. Gashleigh; “and a leg of beef is not a company dish.”

“Madame, they are to make the stock of the clear soup,” Mr. Cavalcadour said.

“WHAT!” cried Mrs. Gashleigh; and the cook repeated his former expression.

“Never, whilst I am in this house,” cried out Mrs. Gashleigh, indignantly; “never in a Christian ENGLISH household; never shall such sinful waste be permitted by ME. If you wish me to dine, Rosa, you must get a dinner less EXPENSIVE. The Right Honorable Lord Fortyskewer could dine, sir, without these wicked luxuries, and I presume my daughter’s guests can.”

“Madame is perfectly at liberty to decide,” said M. Cavalcadour. “I came to oblige Madame and my good friend Mirobolant, not myself.”

“Thank you, sir, I think it WILL be too expensive,” Rosa stammered in a great flutter; “but I am very much obliged to you.”

“Il n’y a point d’obligation, Madame,” said Monsieur Alcide Camille Cavalcadour in his most superb manner; and, making a splendid bow to the lady of the house, was respectfully conducted to the upper regions by little Buttons, leaving Rosa frightened, the cook amazed and silent, and Mrs. Gashleigh boiling with indignation against the dresser.

Up to that moment, Mrs. Blowser, the cook, who had come out of Devonshire with Mrs. Gashleigh (of course that lady garrisoned her daughter’s house with servants, and expected them to give her information of everything which took place there) up to that moment, I say, the cook had been quite contented with that subterraneous station which she occupied in life, and had a pride in keeping her kitchen neat, bright, and clean. It was, in her opinion, the comfortablest room in the house (we all thought so when we came down of a night to smoke there), and the handsomest kitchen in Lilliput Street.