Indeed, the culinary department of the Common Dwelling-house was immense.  All its utensils were bright and clean; and thanks to the marvellous and economical inventions of modern science (which are always beyond the reach of the poorer classes, to whom they are most necessary, because they can only be practised on a large scale), not only the fire on the hearth, and in the stoves, was fed with half the quantity of fuel that would have been consumed by each family individually, but the excess of the caloric sufficed, with the aid of well-constructed tubes, to spread a mild and equal warmth through all parts of the house.  And here also children, under the direction of two women, rendered numerous services.  Nothing could be more comic than the serious manner in which they performed their culinary functions; it was the same with the assistance they gave in the bakehouse, where, at an extraordinary saving in the price (for they bought flour wholesale), they made an excellent household bread, composed of pure wheat and rye, so preferable to that whiter bread, which too often owes its apparent qualities to some deleterious substance.

“Good-day, Dame Bertrand,” said Agricola, gayly, to a worthy matron, who was gravely contemplating the slow evolution of several spits, worthy of Gamache’s Wedding so heavily were they laden with pieces of beef, mutton, and veal, which began to assume a fine golden brown color of the most attractive kind; good-day, Dame Bertrand.  According to the rule, I do not pass the threshold of the kitchen.  I only wish it to be admired by this young lady, who is a new-comer amongst us.”

“Admire, my lad, pray admire—­and above all take notice, how good these brats are, and how well they work!” So saying, the matron pointed with the long ladle, which served her as a sceptre, to some fifteen children of both sexes, seated round a table, and deeply absorbed in the exercise of their functions, which consisted in peeling potatoes and picking herbs.

“We are, I see, to have a downright Belshazzar’s feast, Dame Bertrand?” said Agricola, laughing.

“Faith, a feast like we have always, my lad.  Here is our bill of fare for to-day.  A good vegetable soup, roast beef with potatoes, salad, fruit, cheese; and for extras, it being Sunday, some currant tarts made by Mother Denis at the bakehouse, where the oven is heating now.”

“What you tell me, Dame Bertrand, gives me a furious appetite,” said Agricola, gayly.  “One soon knows when it is your turn in the kitchen,” added he, with a flattering air.

“Get along, do!” said the female Soyer on service, merrily.

“What astonishes me, so much, M. Agricola,” said Angela, as they continued their walk, “is the comparison of the insufficient, unwholesome food of the workmen in our country, with that which is provided here.”

“And yet we do not spend more than twenty-five sous a day, for much better food than we should get for three francs in Paris.”