king, one knows not why, when he meets "poor Tom" on the heath.

That Dorsenne's Parisian friends, the Casals, the Machaults, the De
Vardes, those habitues of the club, might not judge him too severely, he
explained that the Theban born in Florence was a cook of the first order
and that the modest restaurant had its story. It amused so paradoxical
an observer as Julien was. He often said, "Who will ever dare to write
the truth of the history?" This, for example: Pope Pius IX, having asked
the Emperor to send him some troops to protect his dominions, the latter
agreed to do so--an occupation which bore two results: a Corsican hatred
of the half of Italy against France and the founding of the Marzocco
by Egiste Brancadori, says the Theban or the doctor. It was one of the
pleasantries of the novelist to pretend to have cured his dyspepsia in
Italy, thanks to the wise and wholesome cooking of the said Egiste. In
reality, and more simply, Brancadori was the old cook of a Russian lord,
one of the Werekiews, the cousin of pretty Alba Steno's real father.
That Werekiew, renowned in Rome for the daintiness of his dinners, died
suddenly in 1866. Several of the frequenters of his house, advised by
a French officer of the army of occupation, and tired of clubs, hotels,
and ordinary restaurants, determined to form a syndicate and to employ
his former cook. They, with his cooperation, established a sort of
superior cafe, to which with some pride they gave the name of the
Culinary Club. By assuring to each one a minimum of sixteen meals for
seven francs, they kept for four years an excellent table, at which were
to be found all the distinguished tourists in Rome. The year 1870 had
disbanded that little society of connoisseurs and of conversationalists,
and the club was metamorphosed into a restaurant, almost unknown,
except to a few artists or diplomats who were attracted by the ancient
splendors of the place, and, above all, by the knowledge of the
"doctor's" talents.

It was not unusual at eight o'clock for the three small rooms which
composed the establishment to be full of men in white cravats, white
waistcoats and evening coats. To cosmopolitan Dorsenne this was a
singularly interesting sight; a member of the English embassy here,
of the Russian embassy farther on, two German attaches elsewhere,
two French secretaries near at hand from St. Siege, another from the
Quirinal. What interested the novelist still more was the conversat