Part 5

Deux Releves.

Le Chapeau-a-trois-cornes farci a la Robespierre. Le Tire-botte a l'Odalisque.

Six Entrees. Saute de Hannetons a l'Epingliere. Cotelettes a la Megatherium. Bourrasque de Veau a la Palsambleu. Laitances de Carpe en goguette a la Reine Pomare. Turban de Volaille a l'Archeveque de Cantorbery.”

And so on with the entremets, and hors d'oeuvres, and the rotis, and the releves.

“Madame will see that the dinners are quite simple,” said M. Cavalcadour.

“Oh, quite!” said Rosa, dreadfully puzzled.

“Which would Madame like?”

“Which would we like, mamma?” Rosa asked; adding, as if after a little thought, “I think, sir, we should prefer the blue one.” At which Mrs. Gashleigh nodded as knowingly as she could; though pink or blue, I defy anybody to know what these cooks mean by their jargon.

“If you please, Madame, we will go down below and examine the scene of operations,” Monsieur Cavalcadour said; and so he was marshalled down the stairs to the kitchen, which he didn't like to name, and appeared before the cook in all his splendor.

He cast a rapid glance round the premises, and a smile of something like contempt lighted up his features. “Will you bring pen and ink, if you please, and I will write down a few of the articles which will be necessary for us? We shall require, if you please, eight more stew-pans, a couple of braising-pans, eight saute-pans, six bainmarie-pans, a freezing-pot with accessories, and a few more articles of which I will inscribe the names.” And Mr. Cavalcadour did so, dashing down, with the rapidity of genius, a tremendous list of ironmongery goods, which he handed over to Mrs. Timmins. She and her mamma were quite frightened by the awful catalogue.

“I will call three days hence and superintend the progress of matters; and we will make the stock for the soup the day before the dinner.”

“Don't you think, sir,” here interposed Mrs. Gashleigh, “that one soup--a fine rich mock-turtle, such as I have seen in the best houses in the West of England, and such as the late Lord Fortyskewer--”

“You will get what is wanted for the soups, if you please,” Mr. Cavalcadour continued, not heeding this interruption, and as bold as a captain on his own quarter-deck: “for the stock of clear soup, you will get a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham.”

“We, munseer,” said the cook, dropping a terrified curtsy: “a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham.”

“You can't serve a leg of veal at a party,” said Mrs. Gashleigh; “and a leg of beef is not a company dish.”

“Madame, they are to make the stock of the clear soup,” Mr. Cavalcadour said.

“WHAT!” cried Mrs. Gashleigh; and the cook repeated his former expression.

“Never, whilst I am in this house,” cried out Mrs. Gashleigh, indignantly; “never in a Christian ENGLISH household; never shall such sinful waste be permitted by ME. If you wish me to dine, Rosa, you must get a dinner less EXPENSIVE. The Right Honorable Lord Fortyskewer could dine, sir, without these wicked luxuries, and I presume my daughter's guests can.”

“Madame is perfectly at liberty to decide,” said M. Cavalcadour. “I came to oblige Madame and my good friend Mirobolant, not myself.”

“Thank you, sir, I think it WILL be too expensive,” Rosa stammered in a great flutter; “but I am very much obliged to you.”

“Il n'y a point d'obligation, Madame,” said Monsieur Alcide Camille Cavalcadour in his most superb manner; and, making a splendid bow to the lady of the house, was respectfully conducted to the upper regions by little Buttons, leaving Rosa frightened, the cook amazed and silent, and Mrs. Gashleigh boiling with indignation against the dresser.

Up to that moment, Mrs. Blowser, the cook, who had come out of Devonshire with Mrs. Gashleigh (of course that lady garrisoned her daughter's house with servants, and expected them to give her information of everything which took place there) up to that moment, I say, the cook had been quite contented with that subterraneous station which she occupied in life, and had a pride in keeping her kitchen neat, bright, and clean. It was, in her opinion, the comfortablest room in the house (we all thought so when we came down of a night to smoke there), and the handsomest kitchen in Lilliput Street.

But after the visit of Cavalcadour, the cook became quite discontented and uneasy in her mind. She talked in a melancholy manner over the area-railings to the cooks at twenty-three and twenty-five. She stepped over the way, and conferred with the cook there. She made inquiries at the baker's and at other places about the kitchens in the great houses in Brobdingnag Gardens, and how many spits, bangmarry-pans, and stoo-pans they had. She thought she could not do with an occasional help, but must have a kitchen-maid. And she was often discovered by a gentleman of the police force, who was, I believe, her cousin, and occasionally visited her when Mrs. Gashleigh was not in the house or spying it:--she was discovered seated with MRS. RUNDELL in her lap, its leaves bespattered with her tears. “My pease be gone, Pelisse,” she said, “zins I zaw that ther Franchman!” And it was all the faithful fellow could do to console her.

“---- the dinner!” said Timmins, in a rage at last. “Having it cooked in the house is out of the question. The bother of it, and the row your mother makes, are enough to drive one mad. It won't happen again, I can promise you, Rosa. Order it at Fubsby's, at once. You can have everything from Fubsby's--from footmen to saltspoons. Let's go and order it at Fubsby's.”

“Darling, if you don't mind the expense, and it will be any relief to you, let us do as you wish,” Rosa said; and she put on her bonnet, and they went off to the grand cook and confectioner of the Brobdingnag quarter.

On the arm of her Fitzroy, Rosa went off to Fubsby's, that magnificent shop at the corner of Parliament Place and Alicompayne Square,--a shop into which the rogue had often cast a glance of approbation as he passed: for there are not only the most wonderful and delicious cakes and confections in the window, but at the counter there are almost sure to be three or four of the prettiest women in the whole of this world, with little darling caps of the last French make, with beautiful wavy hair, and the neatest possible waists and aprons.

Yes, there they sit; and others, perhaps, besides Fitz have cast a sheep's-eye through those enormous plate-glass windowpanes. I suppose it is the fact of perpetually living among such a quantity of good things that makes those young ladies so beautiful. They come into the place, let us say, like ordinary people, and gradually grow handsomer and handsomer, until they grow out into the perfect angels you see. It can't be otherwise: if you and I, my dear fellow, were to have a course of that place, we should become beautiful too. They live in an atmosphere of the most delicious pine-apples, blanc-manges, creams, (some whipt, and some so good that of course they don't want whipping,) jellies, tipsy-cakes, cherry-brandy--one hundred thousand sweet and lovely things. Look at the preserved fruits, look at the golden ginger, the outspreading ananas, the darling little rogues of China oranges, ranged in the gleaming crystal cylinders. Mon Dieu! Look at the strawberries in the leaves. Each of them is as large nearly as a lady's reticule, and looks as if it had been brought up in a nursery to itself. One of those strawberries is a meal for those young ladies, behind the counter; they nibble off a little from the side, and if they are very hungry, which can scarcely ever happen, they are allowed to go to the crystal canisters and take out a rout-cake or macaroon. In the evening they sit and tell each other little riddles out of the bonbons; and when they wish to amuse themselves, they read the most delightful remarks, in the French language, about Love, and Cupid, and Beauty, before they place them inside the crackers. They always are writing down good things into Mr. Fubsby's ledgers. It must be a perfect feast to read them. Talk of the Garden of Eden! I believe it was nothing to Mr. Fubsby's house; and I have no doubt that after those young ladies have been there a certain time, they get to such a pitch of loveliness at last, that they become complete angels, with wings sprouting out of their lovely shoulders, when (after giving just a preparatory balance or two) they fly up to the counter and perch there for a minute, hop down again, and affectionately kiss the other young ladies, and say, “Good-by, dears! We shall meet again la haut.” And then with a whir of their deliciously scented wings, away they fly for good, whisking over the trees of Brobdingnag Square, and up into the sky, as the policeman touches his hat.

It is up there that they invent the legends for the crackers, and the wonderful riddles and remarks on the bonbons. No mortal, I am sure, could write them.