Can
you cook?'
The lady looked at me with some surprise, mingled perhaps with so much
of indignation as such a mild person could assume. She did not reply,
but, glancing at the kettle, and then turning towards the breakfast
dishes on the table by the wall, a slow flush of colour suffused her
wan cheeks.
'My lady,' I said at last, as the silence became embarrassing, 'you
must pardon the impulse of a foreigner who finds himself constantly
brought into conflict with prejudices which he fails to understand.
You are perhaps offended at my question. The last person of whom I
made that inquiry was the young and beautiful Madame la Comtesse de
Valerie-Moberanne, who enthusiastically clapped her hands with delight
at the compliment, and replied impulsively,--
'"Oh, Monsieur Valmont, let me compose for you an omelette which will
prove a dream," and she did. One should not forget that Louis XVIII
himself cooked the _truffes a la puree d'ortolans_ that caused the Duc
d'Escars, who partook of the royal dish, to die of an indigestion.
Cooking is a noble, yes, a regal art. I am a Frenchman, my lady, and,
like all my countrymen, regard the occupation of a cuisiniere as
infinitely superior to the manipulation of that machine, which is your
profession, or the science of investigation, which is mine.
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