In less than a quarter of an hour we were all four established round one
of Madame Choucru's comfortable little dining-tables, in a snug recess
at the farthest end of the salon. Here, being well out of reach of our
hostess's black eyes, Müller assumed all the airs of a liberal
entertainer. He hung up _ma cousine's_ bonnet; fetched a footstool for
_ma tante_; criticised the sauces; presided over the wine; cut jokes
with the waiter; and pretended to have ordered every dish beforehand.
The stewed kidneys with mushrooms were provided especially for Madame
Marotte; the fricandeau was selected in honor of Mam'selle Marie (had he
not an innate presentiment that she loved fricandeau?); and as for the
soles _au gratin_, he swore, in defiance of probability and all the laws
of nature, that they were the very fish we had just caught in the Seine.
By-and-by came Monsieur Choucru's famous cheese _soufflé_; and then,
with a dish of fruit, four cups of coffee, and four glasses of liqueure,
the banquet came to an end.

As we sat at desert, Müller pulled out his book and pencilled a rapid
but flattering sketch of the dining-room interior, developing a
perspective as long as the Rue de Rivoli, and a _mobilier_ at least
equal in splendor to that of the _Trois Frères_.

At sight of this _chef d'oeuvre_, Madame Choucru was moved almost to
tears. Ah, Heaven! if Monsieur could only figure to himself her
admiration for his _beau talent_! But alas! that was impossible--as
impossible as that Monsieur Choucru should ever repay this unheard-of
obligation!

Müller laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed profoundly.

"Ah! Madame," he said, "it is not to Monsieur Choucru that I look for