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And Maurice, his arm in a sling, went with Avene and Zita all the way to Clodomir’s restaurant at Montmartre, where the tables were laid in an arbour in the garden.
Prince Istar and Théophile were already there, with a little creature who looked like a child, and was, in fact, a Japanese angel.
“We are only waiting for Nectaire,” said Zita.
And at that moment the old gardener noiselessly appeared. He took his seat, and his dog lay down at his feet. French cooking is the best in the world. It is a glory that will transcend all others when humanity has grown wise enough to put the spit above the sword. Clodomir served the angels, and the mortal who was with them, with a soup made of cabbages and bacon, a loin of pork and kidneys cooked in wine, thereby proving himself a real Montmartre cook, and showing that he had not been spoilt by the Americans, who corrupt the most excellent chefs of the City of Restaurants.
Clodomir brought forth some Bordeaux, which, though unrecorded among the renowned vintages of Médoc, gave evidence by its choice and delicate aroma of the high nobility of its origin. We must not omit to chronicle that, after this wine and many others had been drunk, the cellarman, in solemn state, produced a Bergundy choice and rare, full-bodied yet not heavy, generous yet
