r the stomach; they
say 'the chewers of Gournay.' Gisors despises Gournay, but Gournay laughs
at Gisors. It is a very comical country, this."

I perceived that I was eating something very delicious, hard-boiled eggs
wrapped in a covering of meat jelly flavored with herbs and put on ice
for a few moments. I said as I smacked my lips to compliment Marambot:

"That is good."

He smiled.

"Two things are necessary, good jelly, which is hard to get, and good
eggs. Oh, how rare good eggs are, with the yolks slightly reddish, and
with a good flavor! I have two poultry yards, one for eggs and the other
for chickens. I feed my laying hens in a special manner. I have my own
ideas on the subject. In an egg, as in the meat of a chicken, in beef, or
in mutton, in milk, in everything, one perceives, and ought to taste, the
juice, the quintessence of all the food on which the animal has fed. How
much better food we could have if more attention were paid to this!"

I laughed as I said:

"You are a gourmand?"

"Parbleu. It is only imbeciles who are not. One is a gourmand as one is
an artist, as one is learned, as one is a poet. The sense of taste, my
friend, is very delicate, capable of perfection, and quite as worthy of
respect as the eye and the ear. A person who lacks this sense is deprived
of an exquisite faculty, the faculty of discerning the quality of food,
just as one may lack the faculty of discerning the beauties of a book or
of a work of art; it means to be deprived of an essential organ, of
something that belongs to higher humanity; it means to belong to one of
those innumerable classes of the infirm, the unfortunate, and the fools
of which our race is composed; it means to have the mouth of an animal,
in a word, just like the mind of an animal. A man who cannot distinguish
one kind of lobster from another; a herring--that admirable fish
that has all the flavors, all the odors of the sea--from a mackerel
or a whiting; and a Cresane from a Duchess pear, may be compared to a man
who should mistake Balzac for Eugene Sue; a symphony of Beethoven for a
military march composed by the bandmaster of a regiment; and the Apollo
Belvidere for the statue of General de Blaumont.

"Who is General de Blaumont?"

"Oh, that's true, you do not know. It is easy to tell that you do not
belong to Gisors. I told you just now, my dear boy, that they called the
inhabitants of this town 'the proud people of Gisors,' and never was an
epith