“It is one of thy accomplishments,” said Madame la Comtesse, at a hazard. It was, indeed, though she could not have known it; or that Brillat-Savarin himself had once acknowledged me to be his master in the art. “I shall be charmed,” I said. I called for oil, wine, vinegar, sweet fruits, the sauces of soy and ketchup, caviare, truffles, anchovies, meat-gravy, and the yolks of eggs. I had a proportion and a place for each; and while I broke the lettuces, my company sat watching, and engaged me in some pretty intimate conversation, asking many questions about Paris, my former and present conditions, and even my place of abode. I answered good-humouredly on account of my dear Philippe, who was of the very complexion and moral of these frank rascals; and presently they pronounced my salad such a dish as Vitellius had never conceived; and, from their table, they drank to its author and to the beautiful eyes of Madame la Comtesse. It was all comical enough; but, by-and-by when, having finished our meal, we found ourselves in the street again, Carinne thrust a folded slip of paper into my hand. “What is this, _mignonne_?” “Look, then,” said she. “It was conveyed by the _élégant_ under thy plate.” I opened and examined it. It was a note for five pounds. “_Au diable!_” I murmured, flushing scarlet. Carinne placed her hand on my arm. She looked up in my face very earnest and pitiful. “Jourdain,” she said, “makes his living by turning his knowledge of weaving to account; De Courcy begs his by ‘_parfilage_.’ Which is the better method, _mon ami_? Is it not well to face the inevitable courageously by taking thy accomplishments to market?” “I will become a salad-dresser,” said I. * * * * * * * On the following day arrived a very courteous note from my _petit-maître_ of the dining-room, entreating me, as a special favour, to come that evening to a certain noble house and make the salad for a large dinner-party that was to be given therein. I went, was happy in confirming the great opinion formed of my powers, and was delicately made the recipient of a handsome present in acknowledgment of my services. From that moment my good little fortunes rolled up like a snow-ball. Within a period of eighteen months I had accumulated, by the mere “art of selection,” a sum of near a hundred thousand francs--truly a notable little egg’s-nest. * * * * * * * One morning, not so very long ago, Madame de Crancé came to me with her eyes shining. “Little Thibaut,” said she, “thou hast a great heart. Yet--though doubtless thou wert right to insist that the husband should be the bread-winner--it has grieved me to stand by and watch my own particular gift rusting from disuse. Well, sir, for thy rebuke I have at last a surprise for thee. Behold!” and with that she fetched a canvas from behind her back, where she had been secreting it, and presented it to my view. “Is it not like?” she said, her throat swelling with joy and pride.