le chef: for nearly half an hour. In spite of
Royal Mail associations, I find him a man of
wonderful tact and knowledge. Indeed, how
would he have got there at all were it otherwise?
Strange to say, he has shown me some
queer notes of his own making during the last
two or three days. As I go away it seems
settled that M. le chef will not dine at home
that day; but has taken a fancy for trying
the cuisine at the Three Gold Crowns. He
will dine much about the time we do, only
he will be served in a little Cabinet Particulier
by himself. I am grieved at not having
his company at the public table; for he is a
man of wit and easy manners. But he has
his little oddities, he says, and so shrugs me
out.

At about ten minutes before five, I am
ascending the stairs of the Three Gold
Crowns. I find the lieutenant already there
before me, walking up and down—gentlemen
of the Imperial Service proving, within my
experience, punctual and fatal patrons of the
proprietors of such establishments. We salute
each other profoundly, and enter upon the
probabilities of there being full or scanty
attendance at the approaching meal. To us
entered presently a purple, orb-faced gentleman,
plainly of the country interest and Squire
Western habits, and then a little smart man,
who recalled forcibly the popular portraits of
M. Thiers. He seems, as it were, perpetually
shooting out into points and angles, and comes
in company with the gentleman of the country,
laying out some local interest energetically
with his pointed finger.

Behind them walks out the host of the
Three Gold Crowns, heralding the soup—
significant omen that no more are to come
or at least be waited for. But the professor
of modern tongues and belles lettres,
where is he? I am so interested in this
coming of M. Rabbe, that I feel myself
getting troubled and uneasy in mind, and
look every instant towards the door. More
especially as I know from sounds behind
the partition that there is a gentleman being
served in private—contingent, as it were, upon
M. Rabbe's arrival. Perhaps M. Rabbe may
have private reasons for not desiring to meet
me? Seriously I am very much disturbed,
and think anxiously of the thin, pale lady
expectant at the Son of France.

The soup then is put on. Officious garçons
bustle about, and the clatter of China ware
and tongues sets in. M. Petit—for I have
learnt long since that M. Thiers' portrait
stands for him—talks for the whole company.
He has his sharp forefinger laid upon his
neighbour's chest; now upon his plate; now
vertically upon his own palm. He is for
ever illustrating things with little constructions
of his knife and fork, his napkin and
his chair. He distracts me from what I am
thinking of so nervously. The sous-lieutenant
and M. Falcon accept him cheerfully as
he is—and without reply—for their souls are
now laid conscientiously to the great work
before them.

Just as the soup is being taken away, I
catch the sound of a distant step upon the
stairs. Our host catches it too; for he bids
Antoine stay his hand, and leave the soup
for M. Rabbe. For another moment, my
heart is beating hard, and there enters some
one bowing low, and full of soft apologies—a
little warm, too, with the haste he has made
—and wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
Ah, Fanchonette! For all that artificial
strip of baldness reaching even to the
back of the head; in spite of those shorn lips
and cheeks; of that limp neckcloth, swathed
in many folds and brought down upon the
chest; of that bunch of seals; and the long
black garment a shade seedy at the collar; I
say you should have known M. Rabbe, in one
second, at that comely German town! I
would have picked him out of a thousand.

He was one of M. Petit's own circle of
friends; for that gentleman saluted him heartily
as he took his seat. A very agreeable man
was M. Rabbe, and entertained us wonderfully
for the rest of dinner; excepting that at
times he had a peculiar manner of displaying
his teeth, and I could not help fancying a yellow
moustache just over them. He spoke cheerfully
of the morning's fonction, and of the
admirable sermon of M. le vicaire—such
plain, sound doctrine, and so good for the
people! Then he falls upon fiscal questions
with M. Petit, handling them with a certain
skill. The lieutenant is, all this while, too
hard at work for mere converse.

At last M. Petit, looking at his watch,
discovers that he has important business
elsewhere, and so departs with a bow that takes
in all the company. The lieutenant rises
about the same time; bethinking him of the
little café in the Square of the town. Remain
therefore, the country interest, myself, and
M. Rabbe: who says with a pleasant smile
that he knows of a particular Volnay, now
lying in our host's cellars, and would take
leave to order up some, for our special
tasting. At this moment there are sounds of
movement behind the partition, and presently
enters with bows, my friend the chef, with
newspaper in one hand, and his glass and a
slim wine-flask in the other, begging to be
allowed to join the company. I confess I
scarcely know M. le chef again. He is
strangely metamorphosed, having now got
up a little of the aspect of a town burgher
in his Sunday suit: with a brusque local
tone of speech. No traces here of the
brown garment and the ancient travelling
cap! He draws in his chair, looks round
on us cheerfully, and I now feel that the
time for business is at hand.

"You do meet excellent wines "—I say, in
continuation of the Volnay discussion—"in
some of those little towns up and down the
country."

"Ay," says M. le chef, holding his glass