Part 2 (2/2)

”Are you an archaeologist?” asked the professor.

”I,” replied Dumas, ”I am absolutely nothing.”

”Still,” insisted the visitor, ”you perceived at once that it was a portrait of Julius Caesar.”

”That is not very wonderful. Caesar is essentially a Roman type; and, besides, I know Caesar as well as most people, and perhaps better.”

To tell a professor of history--especially a provincial one--that one knows Caesar as well as most people and perhaps better, is naturally to provoke the question, ”In what capacity?” As a matter of course the question followed immediately.

”In the capacity of Caesar's historian,” said Dumas imperturbably.

We were getting interested, because we foresaw that the professor would, in a few minutes, get the worst of it. Dumas' eyes were twinkling with mischief.

”You have written a history of Caesar?” asked the learned man.

”Yes; why not?”

”Well, you won't mind my being frank with you: it is because it has never been mentioned in the world of savans.”

”The world of savans never mentions me.”

”Still, a history of Caesar ought to make somewhat of a sensation.”

”Mine has not made any. People read it, and that was all. It is the books which it is impossible to read that make a sensation: they are like the dinners one cannot digest; the dinners one digests are not as much as thought of next morning.” That was Dumas' way of putting a would-be impertinent opponent _hors de combat_, and his repartees were frequently drawn from the pursuit he loved as well, if not better than literature, namely, cooking. It may sound exaggerated, but I verily believe that Dumas took a greater pride in concocting a stew than in constructing a novel or a play. Very often, in the middle of the dinner, he would put down his knife and fork. ”ca, c'est rudement bon: il faut que je m'en procure la recette.” And Guepet was sent for to authorize Dumas to descend to the lower regions and have a consultation with his chefs. He was the only one of the _habitues_ who had ever been in the kitchens of the Cafe de Paris. As a rule these excursions were followed by an invitation to dine at Dumas' two or three days hence, when the knowledge freshly acquired would be put into practice.

There were few of us who questioned Dumas' literary genius; there were many who suspected his culinary abilities, and notably among them, Dr.

Veron. The germs of this unbelief had been sown in the doctor's mind by his own cordon-bleu, Sophie. The erstwhile director of the opera lived, at that time, in a beautiful apartment on the first floor of a nice house in the Rue Taitbout, at the corner of which the Cafe de Paris was situated. Sophie had virtually a sinecure of it, because, with the exception of a dinner-party now and then, her master, who was a bachelor, took his dinners at the restaurant. And with regard to the dejeuner, there was not much chance of her displaying her talents, because the man, who was reputed to be a very Apicius, was frugality itself. His reasons for dining out instead of at home were perfectly logical, though they sounded paradoxical. One day, when I was remarking upon the seemingly strange habit of dining out, when he was paying ”a perfect treasure” at home, he gave me these reasons. ”My dear friend, depend upon it that it is man's stomach which found the aphorism, 'Qui va _piano_ va _sano_, qui va _sano_ va _lontano_.' In your own home the soup is on the table at a certain hour, the roast is taken off the jack, the dessert is spread out on the sideboard. Your servants, in order to get more time over their meals, hurry you up; they do not serve you, they gorge you. At the restaurant, on the contrary, they are never in a hurry, they let you wait. And, besides, I always tell the waiters not to mind me; that I like being kept a long while--that is one of the reasons why I come here.

”Another thing, at the restaurant the door is opened at every moment and something happens. A friend, a chum, or a mere acquaintance comes in; one chats and laughs: all this aids digestion. A man ought not to be like a boa-constrictor, he ought not to make digestion a business apart.

He ought to dine and to digest at the same time, and nothing aids this dual function like good conversation. Perhaps the servant of Madame de Maintenon, when the latter was still Madame Scarron, was a greater philosopher than we suspect when he whispered to his mistress, 'Madame, the roast has run short; give them another story.'

”I knew a philanthropist,” wound up Dr. Veron, ”who objected as much to be hurried over his emotions as I object to be hurried over my meals.

For that reason he never went to the theatre. When he wanted an emotional fillip, he wandered about the streets until he met some poor wretch evidently hungry and out of elbows. He took him to the nearest wine-shop, gave him something to eat and to drink, sat himself opposite to his guest, and told him to recount his misfortunes. 'But take your time over it. I am not in a hurry,' he recommended. The poor outcast began his tale; my friend listened attentively until he was thoroughly moved. If the man's story was very sad, he gave him a franc or two; if it was positively heart-rending and made him cry, he gave him a five-franc piece; after which, he came to see me, saying, 'I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, and made the intervals between each sensational episode last as long as I liked, and, what is more, it has just cost me seven francs, the price of a stall at the theatre.'”

To return to Dr. Veron's scepticism with regard to Dumas' culinary accomplishments, and how he was converted. Dumas, it appears, had got the recipe for stewing carp from a German lady, and, being at that moment on very friendly terms with Dr. Veron, which was not always the case, had invited him and several others to come and taste the results of his experiments. The dish was simply splendid, and for days and days Veron, who was really a frugal eater, could talk of nothing else to his cook.

”Where did you taste it?” said Sophie, getting somewhat jealous of this praise of others; ”at the Cafe de Paris?”

”No, at Monsieur Dumas',” was the answer.

”Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook, and get the recipe.”

”That's of no use,” objected her master. ”Monsieur Dumas prepared the dish himself.”

”Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me the recipe.”

Sophie was as good as her word, and walked herself off to the Chaussee d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. For Sophie was not altogether illiterate, and the papers at that time were frequently charging Dumas with keeping his collaborateurs too much in the background and himself too much in front. Dumas had never much difficulty in meeting such accusations, but Sophie had unconsciously hit upon the tactics of the clever solicitor who recommended the barrister to abuse the plaintiff, the defendant's case being bad, and she put it into practice. ”C'est avec sa carpe comme avec ses romans, les autres les font et il y met son nom,” she said one day. ”Je l'ai bien vu, c'est un grand diable de vaniteux.”

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