s to the advantage of
_messieurs_. He, Jean Alphonse, could give a large choice, and the
dinner would have all his attention. It was his pride and rule to give
personal attention always to every dish that left his kitchen, but with
the _monde_ of a regular season, he could not take every fish out of the
pan himself, and see that the slices of lemon were cut, and the parsley
put, just as he had always done when he was the _chef_ of Monsieur Blanc.
We knew Monsieur Blanc. Monsieur Blanc died eight years ago, but that
was the way of the world. Now messieurs could go right along with him
and pick out their own fish. The net was down by the pool, and he would
get a lamp in just one little minute. For that would be best. The moon
was coming up, true. But one could not trust the moonlight in choosing
fish.

The garden of the Hotel Beau-Site contains a curious succession of bowers
made by training bamboo trees for partitions and ceilings. As we went
through them, Jean Alphonse explained that these natural _salons
particuliers_, where parties could have luncheon out-of-doors and yet
remain sheltered from the sun and in privacy, combined with the trout to
give his hotel a wonderful vogue in tourist season. We, of course,
insisted that the reputation of the chef must be the third and
controlling attraction. The pool was full, and the trout had no chance.
It was not a sporting proposition; but just before dinner one does not
think of that. Even our choice out of the net was gently guided by Jean
Alphonse. Since human nature is the same the world over, is it
surprising that the tricks calculated to captivate and deceive are the
same? I recalled a famous restaurant in Moscow, where one went to the
fountain with a white-robed Tartar waiter and thought he picked his fish.
I have no doubt that Jean Alphonse believed that his idea was original,
and that we were experiencing a new sensation.

Jean Alphonse did not boast idly of his cuisine. He possessed, too, the
genius of the successful boniface for knowing what would please his
guests. He sensed our lack of interest in the wines of the Midi, and,
helped by the Artist's checked knickers and slender cane, set forth a
bottle of old Scotch. We refused to allow him to open the dining-room
for us, and had our dinner in a corner of the cafe. Villeneuve-Loubet's
_elite_ gathered to see us eat. The _garde-champetre_, the veteran of
1870, the chatelain's bailiff, the local rep