We had no sooner entered this salon, taken possession of a vacant table, and called for coffee, than my companion was beset by a storm of greetings.

“Hola!  Mueller, where hast thou been hiding these last few centuries, mon gaillard?”

“Tiens! Mueller risen from the dead!”

“What news from la bas, old fellow?”

To all which ingenious pleasantries my companion replied in kind—­introducing me at the same time to two or three of the nearest speakers.  One of these, a dark young man got up in the style of a Byzantine Christ, with straight hair parted down the middle, a bifurcated beard, and a bare throat, was called Eugene Droz.  Another—­big, burly, warm-complexioned, with bright open blue eyes, curling reddish beard and moustache, slouched hat, black velvet blouse, immaculate linen, and an abundance of rings, chains, and ornaments—­was made up in excellent imitation of the well-known portrait of Rubens.  This gentleman’s name, as I presently learned, was Caesar de Lepany.

When we came in, these two young men, Droz and De Lepany, were discussing, in enthusiastic but somewhat unintelligible language, the merits of a certain Monsieur Lemonnier, of whom, although till that moment ignorant of his name and fame, I at once perceived that he must be some celebrated chef de cuisine.

“He will never surpass that last thing of his,” said the Byzantine youth.  “Heavens!  How smooth it is!  How buttery!  How pulpy!”

“Ay—­and yet with all that lusciousness of quality, he never wants piquancy,” added De Lepany.

“I think his greens are apt to be a little raw,” interposed Mueller, taking part in the conversation.

“Raw!” echoed the first speaker, indignantly. “Eh, mon Dieu! What can you be thinking of!  They are almost too hot!”

“But they were not so always, Eugene,” said he of the Rubens make-up, with an air of reluctant candor.  “It must be admitted that Lemonnier’s greens used formerly to be a trifle—­just a trifle—­raw.  Evidently Monsieur Mueller does not know how much he has taken to warming them up of late.  Even now, perhaps, his olives are a little cold.”

“But then, how juicy his oranges are!” exclaimed young Byzantine.

“True—­and when you remember that he never washes—!”

“Ah, sacredie! yes—­there is the marvel!”

And Monsieur Eugene Droz held up his hands and eyes with all the reverent admiration of a true believer for a particularly dirty dervish.

“Who, in Heaven’s name, is this unclean individual who used to like his vegetables underdone, and never washes?” whispered I in Mueller’s ear.

“What—­Lemonnier!  You don’t mean to say you never heard of Lemonnier?”

“Never, till now.  Is he a cook?”

Mueller gave me a dig in the ribs that took my breath away.

“Goguenard!” said he.  “Lemonnier’s an artist—­the foremost man of the water-color school.  But I wouldn’t be too funny if I were you.  Suppose you were to burst your jocular vein—­there’d be a catastrophe!”