The physician who treated Montlusin of Pont de Veyle was still more severe, for not only did he forbid the use of wine to his patient, but also prescribed large doses of water.  Shortly after the doctor’s departure, Madame Montlusin, anxious to give full effect to the medical orders and assist in the recovery of her husband’s health, offered him a large glass of the finest and clearest water.  The patient took it with docility, and began to drink it with resignation; but stopping short at the first mouthful, he handed back the glass to his wife.  “Take it, my dear,” said he, “and keep it for another time; I have always heard it said that we should not trifle with remedies.”

In the domain of gastronomy the men of letters are near neighbors to the doctors.  A hundred years ago literary men were all hard drinkers.  They followed the fashion, and the memoirs of the period are quite edifying on that subject.  At the present day they are gastronomes, and it is a step in the right direction.  I by no means agree with the cynical Geoffroy, who used to say that if our modern writings are weak, it is because literary men now drink nothing stronger than lemonade.  The present age is rich in talents, and the very number of books probably interferes with their proper appreciation; but posterity, being more calm and judicial, will see amongst them much to admire, just as we ourselves have done justice to the masterpieces of Racine and Moliere, which were received by their contemporaries with coldness.

Never has the social position of men of letters been more pleasant than at present.  They no longer live in wretched garrets; the fields of literature are become more fertile, and even the study of the Muses has become productive.  Received on an equality in any rank of life, they no longer wait for patronage; and to fill up their cup of happiness, good living bestows upon them its dearest favors.  Men of letters are invited because of the good opinion men have of their talents; because their conversation has, generally speaking, something piquant in it, and also because now every dinner-party must as a matter of course have its literary man.

Those gentlemen always arrive a little late, but are welcomed, because expected.  They are treated as favorites so that they may come again, and regaled that they may shine; and as they find all this very natural, by being accustomed to it they become, are, and remain gastronomes.

Finally, amongst the most faithful in the ranks of gastronomy we must reckon many of the devout—­i.e., those spoken of by Louis XIV. and Moliere, whose religion consists in outward show;—­nothing to do with those who are really pious and charitable.

Let us consider how this comes about.  Of those who wish to secure their salvation, the greater number try to find the most pleasant road.  Men who flee from society, sleep on the ground, and wear hair-cloth next the skin, have always been, and must ever be, exceptions.  Now there are certain things unquestionably to be condemned, and on no account to be indulged in—­as balls, theatres, gambling, and other similar amusements; and whilst they and all that practice them are to be hated, good living presents itself insinuatingly in a thoroughly orthodox guise.