t," wound up Dr. Veron, "who objected as much to
be hurried over his emotions as I object to be hurried over my meals.
For that reason he never went to the theatre. When he wanted an
emotional fillip, he wandered about the streets until he met some poor
wretch evidently hungry and out of elbows. He took him to the nearest
wine-shop, gave him something to eat and to drink, sat himself opposite
to his guest, and told him to recount his misfortunes. 'But take your
time over it. I am not in a hurry,' he recommended. The poor outcast
began his tale; my friend listened attentively until he was thoroughly
moved. If the man's story was very sad, he gave him a franc or two; if
it was positively heart-rending and made him cry, he gave him a
five-franc piece; after which, he came to see me, saying, 'I have
thoroughly enjoyed myself, and made the intervals between each
sensational episode last as long as I liked, and, what is more, it has
just cost me seven francs, the price of a stall at the theatre.'"

To return to Dr. Veron's scepticism with regard to Dumas' culinary
accomplishments, and how he was converted. Dumas, it appears, had got
the recipe for stewing carp from a German lady, and, being at that
moment on very friendly terms with Dr. Veron, which was not always the
case, had invited him and several others to come and taste the results
of his experiments. The dish was simply splendid, and for days and days
Veron, who was really a frugal eater, could talk of nothing else to his
cook.

"Where did you taste it?" said Sophie, getting somewhat jealous of this
praise of others; "at the Cafe de Paris?"

"No, at Monsieur Dumas'," was the answer.

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook, and get the recipe."

"That's of no use," objected her master. "Monsieur Dumas prepared the
dish himself."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me
the recipe."

Sophie was as good as her word, and walked herself off to the Chaussee
d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible
information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so
much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to
throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers
in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. For
Sophie was not altogether illiterate, and the papers at that time were
frequently charging Dumas with keeping his collaborateurs too m