Marianna is an honest woman, monsieur, much too honest, worse luck for
her! Men give nothing for nothing nowadays. So the poor soul will die
in harness.

"And do you suppose that her husband rewards her for her devotion?
Pooh, my lord never gives her a smile! And all their cooking is done
at the baker's; for not only does the wretched man never earn a sou;
he spends all his wife can make on instruments which he carves, and
lengthens, and shortens, and sets up and takes to pieces again till
they produce sounds that will scare a cat; then he is happy. And yet
you will find him the mildest, the gentlest of men. And, he is not
idle; he is always at it. What is to be said? He is crazy and does not
know his business. I have seen him, monsieur, filing and forging his
instruments and eating black bread with an appetite that I envied him
--I, who have the best table in Paris.

"Yes, Excellenza, in a quarter of an hour you shall know the man I am.
I have introduced certain refinements into Italian cookery that will
amaze you! Excellenza, I am a Neapolitan--that is to say, a born cook.
But of what use is instinct without knowledge? Knowledge! I have spent
thirty years in acquiring it, and you see where it has left me. My
history is that of every man of talent. My attempts, my experiments,
have ruined three restaurants in succession at Naples, Parma, and
Rome. To this day, when I am reduced to make a trade of my art, I more
often than not give way to my ruling passion. I give these poor
refugees some of my choicest dishes. I ruin myself! Folly! you will
say? I know it; but how can I help it? Genius carries me away, and I
cannot resist concocting a dish which smiles on my fancy.

"And they always know it, the rascals! They know, I can promise you,