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The Tenth Day

The sun rose on the tenth and last day at the "Laurestinas" as he
was wont to rise on less eventful mornings.  At breakfast the
Marchesa proposed that the lunch that day should be a little more
ornate than usual, and the dinner somewhat simpler.  She
requisitioned the services of six of the company to prepare the
lunch, and at the same time announced that they would all have a
holiday in the afternoon except Mrs. Sinclair, whom she warned to
be ready to spend the afternoon in the kitchen helping prepare the
last dinner.

Four dishes, all admirable, appeared at lunch, and several of the
party expressed regret that the heat of the weather forbade them
from tasting every one; but Sir John was not of these.  He ate
steadily through the menu, and when he finally laid down his knife
and fork he heaved a sigh, whether of satisfaction or regret it
were hard to say.

"It is a commonplace of the deepest dye to remark that ingratitude
is inherent in mankind,"  he began; "I am compelled to utter it,
however, by the sudden longing I feel for a plate from the hand of
the late lamented Narcisse after I have eaten one of the best
luncheons ever put on a table."

"Experience of one school of excellence has caused a hankering
after the triumphs of another," said Miss Macdonnell "There is one
glory of the Marchesa, there is, or was, another of Narcisse, and
the taste of the Marchesa's handiwork has stimulated the desire of
comparision.  Never mind, Sir John, perhaps in another world
Narcisse may cook you--"

"Oh stop, stop, for goodness' sake," cried Sir John, "I doubt
whether even he could make me into a dainty dish to set before the
King of Tartarus, though the stove would no doubt be fitted with
the latest improvements and the fuel abundant."

"Really, Sir John, I'm not sure I ought not to rise and protest,"
said Mrs. Wilding, "and I think I would if it weren't our last
day."

"Make a note of Sir John's wickedness, and pass it on to the Canon
for use in a sermon," said Van der Roet.

"I can only allow you half-an-hour, Laura," said the Marchesa to
Mrs. Sinclair, "then you must come and work with me for the
delectation of these idle people, who are going to spend the
afternoon talking scandal under the chestnuts."

"I am quite ready to join you if I can be of any help," said Mrs.
Gradinger.  "When knowledge is to be acquired, I am always loath to
stand aside, not for my own sake so much as for the sake of others
less fortunate, to whom I might possibly impart it hereafter."

"You are very good," said the Marchesa, "but I think I must adhere
to my original scheme of having Mrs. Sinclair by herself.  I see
coffee is now being taken into the garden, so we will adjourn, if
you please."

After the two workers had departed for the kitchen, an unwonted
silence fell on the party under the chestnuts.  Probably every one
was pondering over the imminent dissolution of the company, and
wondering whether to regret or rejoice.  The peace had been kept
marvellously well, considering the composition of the company.
Mrs. Fothergill at times had made a show of posing as the
beneficent patron, and Mrs. Gradinger had essayed to teach what
nobody wanted to learn; but firm and judicious snubbing had kept
these persons in their proper places.  Nearly every one was sorry
that the end had come.  It had been real repose to Mrs. Wilding to
pass ten days in an atmosphere entirely free from all perfume of
the cathedral close.  Lady Considine had been spending freely of
late, and ten days' cessation of tradesmen's calls, and servants on
board wages, had come as a welcome relief.  Sir John had gained a
respite from the task he dreaded, the task of going in quest of a
successor to Narcisse.  Now as he sat consuming his cigarette in
the leisurely fashion so characteristic of his enjoyment--and those
who knew him best were wont to say that Sir John practiced few arts
so studiously as that of enjoyment--he could not banish the figure
of Narcisse from his reverie.  A horrible thought assailed him that
this obsession might spring from the fact that on this very morning
Narcisse might have taken his last brief walk out of the door of La
Roquette, and that his disembodied spirit might be hovering around.
Admirable as the cookery of the Marchesa had been, and fully as he
had appreciated it, he felt he would give a good deal to be assured
that on this the last evening of the New Decameron he might sit
down to a dinner prepared by the hand of his departed chef.

That evening the guests gathered round the table with more
empressement than usual.  The Marchesa seemed a little flurried,
and Mrs. Sinclair, in a way, shared her excitement.  The menu, for
the first time, was written in French,  a fact which did not escape
Sir John's eye.  He made no remark as to the soup; it was the best
of its kind, and its French name made it no better than the other
triumphs in the same field which the Marchesa had achieved.  But
when Sir John tasted the first mouthful of the fish he paused, and
after a reflective and regretful look at his plate, he cast his eye
round the table.  All the others, however, were too busily intent
in consuming the Turbot la Vatel to heed his interrogative glance,
so he followed suit, and after he had finished his portion, asked,
sotto voce, for another bit.

In the interval before the service of the next dish Sir John made
several vain attempts to catch the Marchesa's eye, and more than
once tried to get in a word; but she kept up a forced and rather
nervous conversation with Lady Considine and Van der Roet, and
refused to listen.  As Sir John helped himself to the next dish,
Venaison sauce Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had
seized him when he first tasted the fish deepened into something
like Consternation.  Had his palate indeed deceived him, or had the
Marchesa, by some subtle effort of experimental genius, divined the
secret of Narcisse--the secret of that incomparable sauce, the
recipe of which was safely bestowed in his pocket-book?
Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under the verandah after
lunch:  was it possible that in his sleep he might have murmured,
in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery, and the
description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams?
One thing was certain, that tile savour which rose from the venison
before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting
effort of the ill-starred Narcisse.

Sir John was the least superstitious of mortals, still here he was
face to face with one of these conjunctions of affairs which the
credulous accept as manifestations of some hidden power, and
sceptics as coincidences and nothing more.  All the afternoon he
had been thinking of Narcisse, and yearning beyond measure for
something suggestive of his art; and here, on his plate before him,
was food which might have been touched by the vanished hand.  The
same subtle influence pervaded the Chartreuse a la cardinal, the
roast capon and salad, and the sweet.  At last, when the dinner was
nearly over, and when the Marchesa had apparently said all she had
to say to Van der Roet, he lifted up his voice and said,
"Marchesa, who gave you the recipe for the sauce with which the
venison was served this evening?"

The Marchesa glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, and then struck a hand-bell
on the table.  The door opened, and a little man, habited in a
cook's dress of spotless white, entered and came forward.  "M.
Narcisse," said the Marchesa, "Sir John wants to know what sauce
was used in dressing the venison; perhaps you can tell him."

Here the Marchesa rose and left the room, and all the rest followed
her, feeling it was unmeet that such a reunion should be witnessed
by other eyes, however friendly they might be.

           * * * * * * *

"Now, you must tell us all about it," said Lady Considine, as soon
as they got into the drawing-room, "and how you ever managed to get
him out of this scrape."

"Oh, there isn't much to tell," said the Marchesa.  "Narcisse was
condemned, indeed, but no one ever believed he would be executed.
One of my oldest friends is married to an official high up in the
Ministry of Justice, and I heard from her last week that Narcisse
would certainly be reprieved; but I never expected a free pardon.
Indeed, he got this entirely because it was discovered that
Mademoiselle Sidonie, his accomplice, was really a Miss Adah
Levine, who had graduated at a music-hall in East London, and that
she had announced her intention of retiring to the land of her
birth, and ascending to the apex of her profession on the strength
of her Parisian reputation.  Then it was that the reaction in
favour of Narcisse set in; the boulevards could not stand this.
The journals dealt with this new outrage in their best Fashoda
style; the cafes rang with it:  another insult cast upon unhappy
France, whose destiny was, it seemed, to weep tears of blood to the
end of time.  There were rumours of an interpellation in the
Chamber, the position of the Minister of the Interior was spoken of
as precarious, indeed the Eclaireur reported one evening that he
had resigned.  Pockets were picked under the eyes of sergents de
ville, who were absorbed in proclaiming to each other their
conviction of the innocence of Narcisse, and the guilt of cette
coquine Anglaise.  Cabmen en course ran down pedestrians by the
dozen, as they discussed l'affaire Narcisse to an accompaniment of
whip-cracking.  In front of the Cafe des Automobiles a belated
organ-grinder began to grind the air of Mademoiselle Sidonie's
great song Bonjour Coco, whereupon the whole company rose with
howls and cries of, 'A bas les Anglais, a bas les Juifs.  'Conspuez
Coco.' In less than five minutes the organ was disintegrated, and
the luckless minstrel flying with torn trousers down a side street.
For the next few days la haute gomme promenaded with fragments of
the piano organ suspended from watch chains as trophies of victory.
But this was not all.  Paris broke out into poetry over l'affaire
Narcisse, and here is a journal sent to me by my friend which
contains a poem in forty-nine stanzas by Aristophane le Beletier,
the cher maitre of the 'Moribonds,' the very newest school of
poetry in Paris.  I won't inflict the whole of it on you, but two
stanzas I must read--

  "'Puisse-je te rappeler loin des brouillards maudits.
    Vers la France, sainte mere et nourrice!
  Reviens a Lutece, de l'art vrai paradis,
    Je t'evoque, O Monsieur Narcisse!

  Quitte les saignants bifteks, de tes mains sublimes
    Gueris le sein meurtri de ta mere!
  Detourne ton glaive trenchant de tes freles victimes
    Vers l'Albion et sa triste Megere.'"

"Dear me, it sounds a little like some other Parisian odes I have
read recently," said Lady Considine.  "The triste Megere, I take
it, is poor old Britannia, but what does he mean by his freles
victimes?"

"No doubt they are the pigeons and the rabbits, and the chickens
and the capons which Narcisse is supposed to have slaughtered in
hecatombs, in order to gorge the brutal appetite of his English
employer," said Miss Macdonnell.  "After disregarding such an
appeal as this M. Narcisse had better keep clear of Paris for the
future, for if he should go back and be recognised I fancy it would
be a case of 'conspuvez Narcisse."'

"The French seem to have lost all sense of exactness," said Mrs.
Gradinger, "for the lines you have just read would not pass muster
as classic.  In the penultimate line there are two syllables in
excess of the true Alexandrine metre, and the last line seems too
long by one.  Neither Racine nor Voltaire would have taken such
liberties with prosody.  I remember a speech in Phaedre of more
than a hundred lines which is an admirable example of what I mean.
I dare say some of you know it.  It begins:--

  "Perfide! oses-tu bien te montrer devant moi? Monstre,"

but before the reciter could get fairly under way the door
mercifully opened, and Sir John entered.  He advanced towards the
Marchesa, and shook her warmly by the hand, but said nothing; his
heart was evidently yet too full to allow him to testify his relief
in words.  He was followed closely by the Colonel, who, taking his
stand on the hearth-rug, treated the company to a few remarks,
couched in a strain of unwonted eulogy.  In the whole course of his
life he had never passed a more pleasant ten days, though, to be
sure, he had been a little mistrustful at first.  As to the outcome
of the experiment, if they all made even moderate use of the
counsels they had received from the Marchesa, the future of cookery
in England was now safe.  He was not going to propose a formal vote
of thanks, because anything he could say would be entirely
insufficient to express the gratitude he felt, and because he
deemed that each individual could best thank the Marchesa on his or
her behalf.

There was a momentary silence when the Colonel ceased, and then a
clearing of the throat and a preliminary movement of the arms gave
warning that Mrs. Gradinger was going to speak.  The unspoken
passage from Racine evidently sat heavily on her chest.  Abstracted
and overwrought as he was, these symptoms aroused in Sir John a
consciousness of impending danger, and he rushed, incontinent, into
the breach, before the lady's opening sentence was ready.

"As Colonel Trestrail has just remarked, we, all of us, are in debt
to the Marchesa in no small degree; but, in my case, the debt is
tenfold.  I am sure you all understand why.  As a slight
acknowledgment of the sympathy I have received from every one here,
during my late trial, I beg to ask you all to dine with me this day
week, when I will try to set before you a repast a la Francaise,
which I hope may equal, I cannot hope that it will excel, the
dinners all'Italiana we have tasted in this happy retreat.
Narcisse and I have already settled the menu."

"I am delighted to accept," said the Marchesa.  "I have no
engagement, and if I had I would throw my best friend over."

"And this day fortnight you must all dine with me," said Mrs.
Sinclair.  "I will spend the intervening days in teaching my new
cook how to reproduce the Marchesa's dishes.  Then, perhaps, we may
be in a better position to decide on the success of the Marchesa's
experiment."

        *   *   *   *   *   *   *

The next morning witnessed the dispersal of the party.  Sir John
and Narcisse left by an early train, and for the next few days the
reforming hand of the last-named was active in the kitchen.  He
arrived before the departure of the temporary aide, and had not
been half-an-hour in the house before there came an outbreak which
might easily have ended in the second appearance of Narcisse at the
bar of justice, as homicide, this time to be dealt with by a
prosaic British jury, which would probably have doomed him to the
halter.  Sir John listened over the balusters to the shrieks and
howls of his recovered treasure, and wisely decided to lunch at his
club.  But the club lunch, admirable as it was, seemed flat and
unappetising after the dainty yet simple dishes he had recently
tasted; and the following day he set forth to search for one of
those Italian restaurants, of which he had heard vague reports.
Certainly the repast would not be the same as at the "Laurestinas,"
but it might serve for once.  Alas! Sir John did not find the right
place, for there are "right places" amongst the Italian restaurants
of London.  He beat a hasty retreat from the first he entered, when
the officious proprietor assured him that he would serve up a
dejeuner in the best French style.  At the second he chose a dish
with an Italian name, but the name was the only Italian thing about
it.  The experiment had failed.  It seemed as if Italian
restaurateurs were sworn not to cook Italian dishes, and the next
day he went to do as best he could at the club.

But before he reached the club door he recalled how, many years
ago, he and other young bloods used to go for chops to Morton's, a
queer little house at the back of St. James' Street, and towards
Morton's he now turned his steps.  As he entered it, it seemed as
if it was only yesterday that he was there.  He beheld the waiter,
with mouth all awry, through calling down the tube.  The same old
mahogany partitions to the boxes, and the same horse-hair benches.
Sir John seated himself in a box, where there was one other luncher
in the corner, deeply absorbed over a paper.  This luncher raised
his head and Sir John recognised Van der Roet.

"My dear Vander, whatever brought you here, where nothing is to be
had but chops? I didn't know you could eat a chop."

"I didn't know it myself till to-day," said Van der Roet, with a
hungry glance at the waiter, who rushed by with a plate of smoking
chops in each hand.  "The fact is, I've had a sort of hankering
after an Italian lunch, and I went out to find one, but I didn't
exactly hit on the right shop, so I came here, where I've been told
you can get a chop properly cooked, if you don't mind waiting."

"Ah! I see," said Sir John, laughing.  "We've both been on the same
quest, and have been equally unlucky.  Well, we shall satisfy our
hunger here at any rate, and not unpleasantly either."

"I went to one place," said Van der Roet "and before ordering I
asked the waiter if there was any garlic in the dish I had ordered.
'Garlic, aglio, no, sir, never.' Whereupon I thought I would go
somewhere else.  Next I entered the establishment of Baldassare
Romanelli.  How could a man with such a name serve anything else
than the purest Italian cookery, I reasoned, so I ordered,
unquestioning, a piatio with an ideal Italian name, Manzo alla
Terracina.  Alas! the beef used in the composition thereof must
have come in a refrigerating chamber from pastures more remote than
those of Terracina, and the sauce served with it was simply fried
onions.  In short, my dish was beefsteak and onions, and very bad
at that.  So in despair I fell back upon the trusty British chop."

As Van der Roet ceased speaking another guest entered the room, and
he and Sir John listened attentively while the new-comer gave his
order.  There was no mistaking the Colonel's strident voice. "Now,
look here! I want a chop underdone, underdone, you understand, with
a potato, and a small glass of Scotch whisky, and I'll sit here."

"The Colonel, by Jove," said Sir John; "I expect he's been
restaurant-hunting too."

"Hallo!" said the Colonel, as he recognised the other two, "I
never thought I should meet you here:  fact is, I've been reading
about agricultural depression' and how it is the duty of everybody
to eat chops so as to encourage the mutton trade, and that sort of
thing."

"Oh, Colonel, Colonel," said Van der Roet.  "You know you've been
hungering after the cookery of Italy, and trying to find a genuine
Italian lunch, and have failed, just as Sir John and I failed, and
have come here in despair.  But never mind, just wait for a year or
so, until the 'Cook's Decameron' has had a fair run for its money,
and then you'll find you'll fare as well at the ordinary Italian
restaurant as you did at the 'Laurestinas,' and that's saying a
good deal."