The Physiology of Taste (52 page)

This sermon had its proper effect, and the chef,
*
thoroughly impressed with his own importance, conducted himself from then on with a dignity worthy of his position.

A little time and thought and experience soon convinced M. de Borose that, given a fairly set number of conventional dishes, a good dinner is not much more expensive than a bad one; that it does not cost even five hundred francs more a year to drink only the best wines; and that everything depends on the will of the master, from the skilful order in his household to the enthusiasm which he instills in all those who are in his service.

The dinners of Borose, built on these fundamental points, took on a solemn and classical importance: their superb fare became famed, and it was counted a great honor to be invited to one of them, so that many people who had not yet been thus privileged boasted of their attendance.

Borose never bothered with those self-styled gastronomers who are nothing more than gluttons with bottomless bellies, and who will eat anywhere, anything, everything. He was fortunate enough to find among his friends, in the first three categories, several pleasant dinner companions who, while eating with a truly philosophical concentration and devoting all the time to this study which it demands, never let themselves forget that there comes a moment when reason says to appetite:
Non procedes amplius
(Go no further, my friend).

It often happened that merchants brought foodstuffs of exceptional merit to him, which they preferred to sell him at moderate prices with the certainty that their delicacies would be consumed graciously and intelligently and be discussed in social circles, and that the reputations of their shops would thus increase and flourish.

M. de Borose’s guests rarely exceeded nine in number, nor
were the dishes very numerous, but the watchfulness of the host and his exquisite taste combined to make them perfect. His table invariably held whatever was the season’s best, whether because of its precocity or its rareness, and the service was so carefully performed that it left nothing to desire.

The conversation during the meals was always general and lively, and often instructive, this last quality being due to a special precaution taken by Borose.

Each week a distinguished but poverty-stricken scholar, to whom a pension was paid, descended from his attic room and handed over a series of topics appropriate for discussion at table. The host took care to produce one or another of these whenever the current subjects seemed about used up, so that the conversation gathered new life and at the same time steered clear of political arguments, which are hindersome to both ingestion and digestion.

Two times a week he invited ladies to dine, and took care to arrange things so that each one would find among the guests a gentleman with eyes for none but her. This precaution added greatly to the harmony of his entertainment, for the most rigidly prudish of women cannot bear to find herself ignored in public by the opposite sex.

On these set days, and only then, a mild round of écarté was permitted, in contrast to all other times when piquet and whist were the order, both being quiet, reflective games which give proof of a good education. But more often these evenings of mixed company were spent in pleasant conversation, mixed with a few love songs which Borose accompanied with the skill we have already discussed, always attracting an applause to himself of which he was far from unconscious.

The first Monday of each month, the priest came to dine with his parishioner, and was sure of being welcomed in a thousand delightful ways. The conversation for that one occasion was a little more serious than usual, but still did not lack certain gentle pleasantries. The dear old father never missed accepting this attractive invitation, and more than once caught himself in the act of wishing that each month had four first Mondays in it.

That same day was the one set for the young Herminie to
come home from Madame Migneron’s,
*
where she was a boarding pupil: more often than not that lady accompanied her ward. Herminie grew more charming with every visit: she adored her father, and when he greeted her by kissing the forehead which she bent toward him, no human beings could have been happier than the two of them.

Borose took constant care to see that the expenses he laid out for his table had real moral value.

He dealt only with the tradespeople who were known for unfailing quality in their merchandise and moderation in their prices; he recommended them to his friends and helped them in other ways when they needed it, for it was his habit to say the men who are too anxious to make money are often careless in the methods they choose.

His wine merchant grew rich quickly enough, for Borose lauded him as innocent of adulteration, a quality which was rare even in Athens during the time of Pericles, and is far from common in our own nineteenth century.

It is rumored that it is Borose whose counsels directed the progress of Hurbain, restaurateur of the Palais-Royal, where one can find for two francs a dinner which would cost twice that anywhere else, Hurbain who is headed for a success made all the more certain by the fact that the crowds which flock to his establishment do so in direct ratio to the moderation of his prices.

What was left on Borose’s table was never turned over to the discretion of his servants, who were amply repaid in other ways: everything that still looked appetizing was commandeered by the master in person.

As a result of his position on various committees of benevolence, he knew the needs and the situations of many of his charity cases, and was sure of placing his gifts to best advanatge, so
portions of still very acceptable food arrived at poor homes from time to time, to chase hunger away and bring a little happiness: the tail of a fine pike, for instance, or the backbone of a turkey carcass, or a bit of meat or pastry.
³

And in order to make these generosities even more important morally, he usually sent them out on a Monday morning or the day after a holiday, thus doing away with any excuse for not going to work, combatting the inconveniences of
Holy Monday
,
*
and making physical enjoyment an antidote for debauchery.

When M. de Borose discovered among the third or fourth ranks of tradesmen a really happy young married couple, whose behavior was a proof of those qualities upon which national prosperity must depend, he paid them the honor of a visit, and made a point of inviting them to dinner with him.

On the appointed day, the young woman would be sure to find herself conversing with ladies about the care of the home, and the husband with gentlemen who could disclose much about business affairs and manufacturing.

These invitations, whose motive was well recognized, ended by being a kind of accolade, and tradesmen outdid themselves to receive one.

While all these things were taking place, the little Herminie grew and developed within the protecting walls of the Rue Valois, and we owe to our readers a picture of her, as an integral part of her father’s biography.

Mademoiselle Herminie de Borose is tall (five feet and one inch), and her figure has the lightness of a nymph’s, and a goddess’ grace.

Sole issue of a happy marriage, her health is perfect, and
her physical stamina is remarkable: she fears neither storm nor burning sun, and the longest walks do not appall her.

From a distance she might be thought a brunette, but on looking more closely at her it can be seen that her hair is a dark chestnut color, and that her eyelashes are black and her eyes sky blue.

Most of her features are classically Grecian, but her nose is French, a charming little nose with such a gracious air about it that a committee of artists, after having deliberated during three whole banquets, decided that this completely Gallic type is at least as deserving as any other of being immortalized by the paint brush, the chisel, and the engraver’s tool.

Miss Herminie’s feet are remarkably small and well formed; the professor has so often praised and even teased her on this subject that on New Year’s Day, 1825, she made a present to him, of course with the approval of her father, of a lovely little black satin slipper, which he shows to a chosen few, and which he uses to prove that intense social culture acts as much on bodies as it does on souls; he believes that a small foot, such as is so fashionable in these times, is the product of great care and breeding, and that it is almost never found among the peasant classes, and is generally the sign of a person whose ancestors have for many generations lived in ease.

When Herminie pins up the forest of her hair, and ties about her modest tunic a belt of woven ribbons, everyone finds her absolutely charming, and cannot see how flowers or pearls or diamonds could add to her beauty.

Her conversation is simple and ready, and none would suspect that she knows the works of all our best writers; but when the occasion arises she grows enthusiastic, and the wittiness of her remarks betrays her. As soon as she realizes this she blushes and lowers her eyes, and her pink cheeks prove her modesty.

Mademoiselle de Borose plays equally well on the piano and the harp, but she prefers the latter instrument for some inexplicable sentiment of enthusiasm for the heavenly instruments which angels strum, and for the golden harps so praised by Ossian.

Her voice too is of a heavenly sweetness and purity, which still does not keep her from being a little timid; nevertheless she sings
without having to be begged, always permitting herself, as she begins, to look once upon her listeners so bewitchingly that she could sing completely off key, like so many others, and it would never even be noticed.

Nor does she neglect her needlework, that source of innocent pleasure which is always ready to stave off empty boredom; she sews like a fairy, and every time some fashionable new stitch appears, the head seamstress of the
Père de Famille
comes by previous arrangement to teach it to her.

Herminie’s heart has not yet been assaulted, and until now her filial piety is sufficient for her happiness; but she has a veritable passion for dancing, which she loves to the point of folly.

When she takes her place in a quadrille she seems to grow two inches taller, and looks as if she would fly away; nevertheless she dances with restraint, and her steps are unpretentious. She is content to glide about lightly, with all the art of her pleasing gracious form, but occasionally she betrays her potentialities, and it is highly possible that if they were developed Madame Montessu
⁴
would have a veritable rival.

This bird, feet on the earth, still seems in flight
.

M. de Borose, then, lived happily in the company of his charming child, whom he had by now withdrawn from her boarding school. He enjoyed a well-administrated fortune and a just renown, and saw ahead of him long years of great contentment. But all hope is treacherous, and no man can count upon the future.

About the middle of last March, M. de Borose was invited to spend a day in the country with some friends.

It was one of those days of unseasonable warmth, forerunners of the Springtime, and from beyond the horizon could be heard the muted thunderings which, the old proverb says, are the sounds of Winter breaking his own neck. They did not frighten the company, who set out upon their walk. Very soon, however, the sky grew threatening, clouds gathered, and a dreadful storm broke, with lightning and rain and hail.

Everybody dashed for cover as best he could, and wherever he might find it. M. de Borose found shelter under a poplar tree, whose lower branches bent over him as if they were a parasol.

Sinister haven! The top of the tree reached up to the clouds themselves in search of their electricity, and the rain as it flowed down the branches acted as conductor. There was the sound of a hideous explosion, and the unfortunate walker fell dead, before he could even draw breath.

Thus carried off by the kind of death which Caesar is said to have wished for, and about which he had no chance to quibble, M. de Borose was buried with the greatest pomp. His casket was followed to the cemetery of Père Lachaise by a great crowd of people in carriages and on foot; praise of him was on every tongue, and when a friend’s voice pronounced over his grave a touching eulogism, it sounded an echo in the hearts of all who listened.

Herminie was prostrated by such a deep and unexpected grief: she did not have convulsions or paroxysms, nor did she try to hide from her sadness by taking to bed, but she wept for her father with such continued bitterness and abandon that her friends could but hope that the excess of her grief would in itself prove the best remedy: we mortals are not made of strong enough stuff to withstand such anguish long.

Time has worked its inevitable cure on this young heart by now. Herminie can speak of her father without dissolving in tears, but it is always with such sweet devotion, such innocent regret, with such a living affection and so meaningful an accent, that it is impossible to hear her and not share her sadness.

It will indeed be a happy man to whom Herminie gives the right to walk beside her and help her carry a wreath to their father’s tomb!

In a small chapel off the nave of the church of … can be seen, every Sunday at the noontime Mass, a tall beautiful girl, accompanied by an aged lady. Her figure is bewitching, but a heavy veil hides her face. Nevertheless they seem to have been recognized, for about the chapel there surges a crowd of newly devout churchgoers, all of them most elegantly attired, and some of them very handsome fellows indeed.

147: One day when I was crossing from the Rue de la Paix to the Place Vendôme, I was stopped by the riding party, returning from the Bois de Boulogne, of the richest young lady of marriageable age in all Paris.

The procession was made up as follows:

1. The beauty herself, object of such hopes and desires, mounted on a very handsome bay, which she handled with great skill: she wore a blue habit with long skirt, and her black hat was plumed with white;
   

2. Her tutor, riding beside her, his face solemn and his very posture suggesting the gravity of his functions;
   

3. A group of twelve to fifteen suitors, each one trying to attract her attention either by his ardor, his horsemanship, or his fashionable melancholy;
   

4. An
   en-cas
   , beautifully turned out, in case of rain or fatigue, with a fat coachman and a jockey no bigger than my thumb;
   

5. Liveried servants of every class, dozens of them, and all prancing about.