We followed the Mercury of the establishment, a grave-looking little yellow boy, who seemed to have grown prematurely old, from his constant companionship, probably, with his preceptor and mistress, into a long, low apartment in the rear of the dwelling, where a table was spread for our party, with a damask cloth and napkins, decorated china and cut-glass, that proved Madame Grambeau’s personal superintendence; and which elicited from Major Favraud, as he entered, a long, low whistle of approval and surprise, and the exclamation “Heh! madame! you are overwhelming us to-day with your magnificence.”

I was amused with the response.  “Sit down, Victor Favraud, and eat your dinner Christian-like, without remarks!  You have never got over the spoiling you received when you lay wounded under this roof.  I shall indulge you no longer.”  Shaking her long forefinger at him.  “Your familiarity needs to be checked.”  Her manner of grave and kindly irony removed all impression of rebuke from this speech, which Major Favraud received very coolly, spoiled child that he really was, rubbing his hands as he took the foot of the table.  At the sight of the bouilli before him, from which a savory steam ascended to his epicurean nostrils, he said, notwithstanding:  “Soup and bouilli too!  Ah, madame, I see why you absented yourself so cruelly this morning.  You have been engaged in good works!”

“Only the sauces, Favraud!—­seulement les sauces” “The sauces—­it’s just that!—­Tide is a mere charlatan in comparison,” turning to me.  “Miss Harz, you never tasted any thing before like madame’s soup and sauces.  I wish she would take me in partnership for a while, if only to teach me the recipes that will otherwise die with her.  What a restaurant we two could keep together!”

“You are too unsteady, Favraud, for my maitre d’hotel. Your mind is too much engrossed by the bubbles of politics, you would spoil all my materials, and realize the old proverb that ‘the devil sends cooks.’  But go to work like a good fellow, and carve the dish before you; by that time the soup will be removed.  I have a fine fish, however, in reserve (let me announce this at once), for my end of the table.”

“Here are croquets too, as I live,” said Duganne, lifting a cover before him and peeping in, then returning it quietly to its place.  “Are you a fairy, madame?”

“Much more like a witch,” she said, with gayety.  “You young men, at least, think every old, toothless gray-haired crone like me ready for the stake, you know.”

“Not when they make such steaks,” said Dr. Durand, attacking the dish, with its savory surroundings, before him.

“Ah! you make calembourgs, my good doctor.—­What do you call them, Favraud?  It is one of the few English words I do not know—­or forget.  I believe, to make them, however, is a medical peculiarity.”

“Puns, madame, puns, not pills.  Don’t forget it now.  It is time you were beginning to master our language.  You know you are almost grown up!” and Favraud looked at her saucily.