The French judicial system seems to demand perpetual judicial inquiries (enquetes) in little country places.  M. Ducros invited me to accompany him, the President, and the “Substitut” on one of these enquetes, and these three, with their tremendous spirits, their perpetual jokes, and above all with their delightful gaiete francaise, amused me so enormously, that I jumped at a second invitation.  So it came about in time, that I invariably accompanied them, and when we started in the shabby old one-horse cabriolet soon after 7 a.m., “notre ami le petit Angliche” was always perched on the box.  My suspicions may be unfounded, but I somehow think that these enquetes were conducted not so much on account of legal exigencies as for the gastronomic possibilities at the end of the journey, for all our inquiries were made in little towns celebrated for some local chef.  These three merry bons-vivants revelled in the pleasures of the table, and on our arrival at our destinations, before the day’s work was entered upon, there were anxious and even heated discussions with “Papa Charron,” “Pere Vinay,” or whatever the name of the local artist might be, as to the comparative merits of truffles or olives as an accompaniment to a filet, or the rival claims of mushrooms or tunny-fish as a worthy lining of an omelet.  The legal business being all disposed of by two o’clock, we four would approach the great ceremony of the day, the midday dinner, with tense expectancy.  The President could never keep out of the kitchen, from which he returned with most assuring reports:  “Cette fois ca y est, mes amis,” he would jubilantly exclaim, rubbing his hands, and even “Papa Charron” himself bearing in the first dish, his face scorched scarlet from his cooking-stove, would confidently aver that “Mm. les juges seront contents aujourd’hui.”

The crowning seal of approbation was always put on by M. Ducros, who, after tasting the masterpiece, would cry exultantly, “Bravo!  Slop-basin!  Slop-basin!” should it fulfil his expectations.  I have previously explained that M. Ducros’ solitary word of English expressed supreme satisfaction, whilst his friends looked on, with unconcealed admiration at their colleague’s linguistic powers.  It sounds like a record of three gormandising middle-aged men; but it was not quite that, though, like most French people, they appreciated artistic cookery.  It is impossible for me to convey in words the charm of that delightful gaiete francaise, especially amongst southern Frenchmen.  It bubbles up as spontaneously as the sparkle of champagne; they were all as merry as children, full of little quips and jokes, and plays upon words.  Our English “pun” is a clumsy thing compared to the finesse of a neatly-turned French calembour.  They all three, too, had an inexhaustible supply of those peculiarly French pleasantries known as petites gauloiseries.  I know that I have never laughed so much in my life.  It is only southern Frenchmen who can preserve this unquenchable