ity of intercourse.

One of the lesser accidents of social life was about to bring for De
Courval unlooked-for changes and materially to affect his fortunes. He
had seemed to Schmidt of late less troubled, a fact due to a decision
which left him more at ease.

The summer of 1794 was over, and the city gay and amusing. He had seen
Carteaux more than once, and seeing him, he had been but little
disturbed. On an evening in September, Schmidt and he went as usual to
the fencing-school. There were some new faces. Du Vallon said, "Here,
Schmidt, is an old friend of mine, and Vicomte, let me present Monsieur
Brillat-Savarin."

The new-comer greeted De Courval and his face expressed surprise as he
bowed to the German. "I beg pardon," he said--"Monsieur Schmidt?"

"Yes, at your service."

He seemed puzzled. "It seems to me that we have met before--in Berne, I
think."

"Berne. Berne," said Schmidt, coldly. "I was never in Berne."

"Ah, I beg pardon. I must be mistaken."

"Are you here for a long stay?"

"Only for a few days. I am wandering in a land of lost opportunities."

"Of what?" asked Schmidt.

"Oh, of the cook. Think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divine
terrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey,
unappreciated, crudely cooked; the Madeira--ah, _mon Dieu!_ I would talk
of them, and, behold, the men talk politics! I have eaten of that dish
at home, and it gave me the colic of disgust."

"But the women?" said a young _emigre_.

"Ah, angels, angels. But can they make an omelet? The divine Miss Morris
would sing to me when I would speak seriously of my search for
truffles. Oh, she would sing the 'Yankee Dudda'[1] and I must hear the
'Lament of Major Andre.' Who was he?"

[1] He so writes it in his "Physiologie du gout."

De Courval explained.

"It is the truffle I lament. Ah, to marry the truffle to the wild
turkey."

The little group laughed. "Old gourmand," cried Du Vallon, "you are
still the same."

"Gourmet," corrected Savarin. "Congratulate me. I have found here a
cook--Marino, a master, French of course, from San Domingo. You will
dine with me at four to-morrow; and you, Monsieur Schmidt, certainly you
resemble--"

"Yes," broke in the German. "A likeness often remarked, not very
flattering."

"Ah, pardon me. But my dinner--Du Vallon, you will come, and the
vicomte, and you and you, and there will be Messieurs Bingham and Rawle
and Mr. Meredith, and one Jacobin,--Mon