She believed that every body dined at six P. M., and was not aware that ecclesiastics dined earlier, from the fact that they were used to take light collations.

Madame R——­ wished to retire, but the cure would not permit her to do so, either because the matter under discussion would not interrupt conversation, or that a pretty woman never disturbs any entertainment.

The table was very well arranged; old wine sparkled in a chrystal flagon, and the porcelain was faultless.  The plates were kept hot by boiling water, and an old housekeeper was in attendance.

The meal was half way between luxury and abstinence.  A soup of ecrevisses was removed and a salmon trout, an omelette, and a salad were placed on the table.

“My dinner tells you,” said the priest “what you do not know, that to day is a fast day.”  My friend assented with a blush.

They began with the trout, the shoulders of which were soon eaten.  The sauce was made by a competent person and the pastor’s brow was irradiated with joy.

Then the omelette, which was round and done to a point, was attached.

As soon as the spoon touched it, the odor and perfume it contained escaped, and my friend owns that it made her mouth water.

The curel had a sympathetic movement for he was used to watch my passions.  In reply to a question he saw Madame R——­ was about to ask, he said, “It is an omelette au thon.  My cook understands them simply, and few people ever taste them without complimenting her.”  “I am not amazed,” said his lady guest, “for I never ate anything so delightful.”

Then came the salad. (I recommend it to those who have confidence in me.  It refreshes without exciting.  I think it makes people younger.)

Dinner did not interrupt conversation.  They talked of the affair which had occasioned the visit, of the war, of business, of other things which made a bad dinner passably good.

The dessert came.  It consisted of septmoncel cheese, of apples and preserves.

At last the house-keeper brought forward a little round table, such as once was called a gueridon, on which was a cup of strong mocha, the perfume of which filled the room.

Having sipped it, the cure said grace, and arose, adding “I never take spirits, though I offer them to my guests.  I reserve them as a succor for extreme old age.”

While all this was progressing, time had passed, and as it was six o’clock, Madame R——­ was anxious to get into her carriage, for she had several friends to dine with her.  She came late, and told her guests, of whom I was one, what she had seen.

The conversation passed from subject to subject, but I, as a philosopher, thought the secret of the preparation of such a dish must be valuable.  I ordered my cook to obtain the recipe in its most minute details.  I publish it the more willingly now, because I never saw it in any book.