Meanwhile the footman was laying a table. This table was of palisander
wood and supported by the semblance of a swan. It could be placed close
beside the ottoman and was filled with twelve different kinds of dishes.
All these meats were cold, for the doctor forbade his patient hot food.
The old gentleman tasted each one of the dishes with the aid of his
finger-tips, and not one of them pleased him. This was too salt, that
was too sweet, a third was burnt, a fourth was tainted. He threatened to
discharge the cook, and bitterly complained that as he did not die
quickly enough for them, they were conspiring to starve him. They might
have replied that he had ordered all these things himself yesterday; but
nobody took the trouble to contradict him any longer, so gradually the
storm died away of its own accord and the old man, turning towards
Maksi, tenderly invited him to partake of the disparaged dishes.

"Come and eat with me, Maksi, my darling."

"That I will," cried the little horror, grabbing at everything
simultaneously with both hands.

"Oh, fie, fie!" said grandpapa gently. "Take Maksi out for a ride and
let the lacquey go with him instead of his tutor!" The old gentleman
then pushed the little round table aside and signalled to the footman
that he was to put all the dishes carefully away, as he should want to
see them again on the morrow. The footman conscientiously obeyed this
command--which was given regularly every day--and locked up all the
dishes well aware that he would get a sound jacketting if he failed to
produce a single one of them when required to do so.

The old man knew well enough that there was not a servant in the house