as to the
comparative merits of truffles or olives as an accompaniment to a
filet, or the rival claims of mushrooms or tunny-fish as a worthy
lining of an omelet. The legal business being all disposed of by two
o'clock, we four would approach the great ceremony of the day, the
midday dinner, with tense expectancy. The President could never keep
out of the kitchen, from which he returned with most assuring reports:
"Cette fois ca y est, mes amis," he would jubilantly exclaim, rubbing
his hands, and even "Papa Charron" himself bearing in the first dish,
his face scorched scarlet from his cooking-stove, would confidently
aver that "MM. les juges seront contents aujourd'hui."

The crowning seal of approbation was always put on by M. Ducros, who,
after tasting the masterpiece, would cry exultantly, "Bravo!
Slop-basin! Slop-basin!" should it fulfil his expectations. I have
previously explained that M. Ducros' solitary word of English expressed
supreme satisfaction, whilst his friends looked on, with unconcealed
admiration at their colleague's linguistic powers. It sounds like a
record of three gormandising middle-aged men; but it was not quite
that, though, like most French people, they appreciated artistic
cookery. It is impossible for me to convey in words the charm of that
delightful gaiete francaise, especially amongst southern Frenchmen. It
bubbles up as spontaneously as the sparkle of champagne; they were all
as merry as children, full of little quips and jokes, and plays upon
words. Our English "pun" is a clumsy thing compared to the finesse of a
neatly-turned French calembour. They all three, too, had an
inexhaustible supply of those peculiarly French pleasantries known as
petites gauloiseries. I know that I have never laughed so much in my
life. It is only southern Frenchmen who can preserve this unquenchable
torrent of animal spirits into middle life. I was only seventeen; they
were from twenty to thirty years my seniors, yet I do not think that we
mutually bored each other the least. They did not need the stimulus of
alcohol to aid this flow of spirits, for, like most Frenchmen of that
class, they were very abstemious, although the "Patron" always produced
for us "un bon vieux vin de derriere les fagots," or "un joli petit vin
qui fait rire." It was sheer "joie de-vivre" stimulated by the good
food and that spontaneous gaiete francaise which appeals so
irresistibly to me. The "Substitut" always preserved a rather