Then came a moment when the chef interrupted the flow of his judicial observations to devote himself to the second course, which he considered highly important.  During his absence, which was brief, Gambara leaned across to address Andrea.

“Our worthy host,” said he, in an undertone, “threatens to regale us to-day with a dish of his own concocting, which I recommend you to avoid, though his wife has had an eye on him.  The good man has a mania for innovations.  He ruined himself by experiments, the last of which compelled him to fly from Rome without a passport—­a circumstance he does not talk about.  After purchasing the good-will of a popular restaurant he was trusted to prepare a banquet given by a lately made Cardinal, whose household was not yet complete.  Giardini fancied he had an opportunity for distinguishing himself—­and he succeeded! for that same evening he was accused of trying to poison the whole conclave, and was obliged to leave Rome and Italy without waiting to pack up.  This disaster was the last straw.  Now,” and Gambara put his finger to his forehead and shook his head.

“He is a good fellow, all the same,” he added.  “My wife will tell you that we owe him many a good turn.”

Giardini now came in carefully bearing a dish which he set in the middle of the table, and he then modestly resumed his seat next to Andrea, whom he served first.  As soon as he had tasted the mess, the Count felt that an impassable gulf divided the second mouthful from the first.  He was much embarrassed, and very anxious not to annoy the cook, who was watching him narrowly.  Though a French restaurateur may care little about seeing a dish scorned if he is sure of being paid for it, it is not so with an Italian, who is not often satiated with praises.

To gain time, Andrea complimented Giardini enthusiastically, but he leaned over to whisper in his ear, and slipping a gold piece into his hand under the table, begged him to go out and buy a few bottles of champagne, leaving him free to take all the credit of the treat.

When the Italian returned, every plate was cleared, and the room rang with praises of the master-cook.  The champagne soon mounted these southern brains, and the conversation, till now subdued in the stranger’s presence, overleaped the limits of suspicious reserve to wander far over the wide fields of political and artistic opinions.

Andrea, to whom no form of intoxication was known but those of love and poetry, had soon gained the attention of the company and skilfully led it to a discussion of matters musical.

“Will you tell me, monsieur,” said he to the composer of dance-music, “how it is that the Napoleon of these tunes can condescend to usurp the place of Palestrina, Pergolesi, and Mozart,—­poor creatures who must pack and vanish at the advent of that tremendous Mass for the Dead?”

“Well, monsieur,” replied the composer, “a musician always finds it difficult to reply when the answer needs the cooperation of a hundred skilled executants.  Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, without an orchestra would be of no great account.”