At first, things were by no means in my favor, and I was somewhat afraid of having compromised myself, for during the first two courses the young lady quite astonished me by her discretion, and I suspected we had stumbled upon an exception, remembering that there are some for every rule.  But at last the dessert came,—­a dessert both magnificent and abundant,—­and my hopes were again revived.  Nor did I hope in vain:  not only did she eat of all that was offered her, but she even got dishes brought to her from the farthest parts of the table.  In a word, she tasted everything, and my neighbor at last expressed his astonishment that the little stomach could hold so many things.  Thus was my diagnosis verified, and once again science triumphed.

Whilst I was writing the above, on a fine winter’s evening, M. Cartier, formerly the first violinist at the Opera, paid me a visit, and sat down at the fireside.  Being full of my subject, I said, after looking at him attentively for some time, “How does it happen, my dear professor, that you are no epicure, when you have all the features of one?” “I was one,” he replied, “and among the foremost; but now I refrain.”  “On principle, I suppose?” said I; but all the answer I had was a sigh, like one of Sir Walter Scott’s—­that is to say, almost a groan.

As some are gourmands by predestination, so others become so by their state in society or their calling.  There are four classes which I should signalize by way of eminence:  the moneyed class, the doctors, men of letters, and the devout.

Inequality of condition implies inequality of wealth, but inequality of wealth does not imply inequality of wants; and he who can afford every day a dinner sufficient for a hundred persons is often satisfied by eating the thigh of a chicken.  Hence the necessity for the many devices of art to reanimate that ghost of an appetite by dishes which maintain it without injury, and caress without stifling it.

The causes which act upon doctors are very different, though not less powerful.  They become epicures in spite of themselves, and must be made of bronze to resist the seductive power of circumstances.  The “dear doctor” is all the more kindly welcomed that health is the most precious of boons; and thus they are always waited for with impatience and received with eagerness.  Some are kind to them from hope, others from gratitude.  They are fed like pet pigeons.  They let things take their course, and in six months the habit is confirmed, and they are gourmands past redemption.

I ventured one day to express this opinion at a banquet in which, with eight others, I took a part, with Dr. Corvisart at the head of the table.  It was about the year 1806.

“You!” cried I, with the inspired tone of a Puritan preacher; “you are the last remnant of a body which formerly covered the whole of France.  Alas! its members are annihilated or widely scattered.  No more fermiers-generaux, no abbes nor knights nor white-coated friars.  The members of your profession constitute the whole gastronomic body.  Sustain with firmness that great responsibility, even if you must share the fate of the three hundred Spartans at the Pass of Thermopylae.”