"Señor likes the puchero?" he said. "Puchero, you call it? Well, if this is puchero, I do like it. Now, par le sambleu, you wanted to put me off with an omelet! He! he!" He lay back in his chair and roared. Jack himself was not a little amused, for he saw on the table a quarter of veal, a neck of mutton, a chicken, the end of a sausage called _chorizo_, slices of bacon and ham, a jug of sauce made of tomatos and saffron and strong spices, a dish of cabbage soaking in oil, and a platter filled with a vegetable rather like haricot beans, called _garbanzo_. All these the landlord mixed in one big vessel so as to make a mayonnaise, which Jack hoped did not taste as strong as it smelt. The commissary fell to with avidity, but he was evidently fond of hearing his own voice, and his tongue being loosened by the unexpected good cheer, and by Jack’s respectful admiration, he condescended to converse between the mouthfuls. "Pity your countrymen are not all as civil and sensible as yourself," he said. "If they’d only put a good face on it, and pay willing obedience to King Joseph—though, to tell the truth, he’s only a proxy for the emperor,—they’d live a quieter life and make the duties of the commissary less of a torture. I tell you, young man—moi qui vous parle—there isn’t a more harassed man in the army than the commissary-general. Hang me if he is not every way as important as the commander-in-chief!" Jack looked at him sympathetically. "A general gets all the credit of a victory, but, parbleu! ’tis the commissary that deserves it. Who won the battle of Austerlitz three years ago? Folks say it was the emperor, but between you and me, mon ami, it was I myself, Gustave Taberne. Soult, Masséna, Lannes, the emperor himself—all very well, but could the men fight if they weren’t well fed?—tell me that. And I feed the army. Skill, that is good; courage, that is better; devotion, that is excellent; but a good meal has won more victories than the cleverest tactics." "The world knows nothing of its greatest men," said Jack. The commissary gleamed approval, but at this point the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a corporal. "Well, Antoine," said the officer, "where is the alcalde?" "He cannot be found, mon colonel," replied the man. "Cannot be found! Cannot! Who dares use such words to the emperor’s commissary-general? The alcalde must be found, or, parbleu! I’ll burn every house and pig-stye in the place. Let him be here in half an hour—not a moment sooner, for I must finish my dejeuner; not a moment later, for he will fare ill if he keeps me waiting. Away with you, Antoine." The corporal vanished. "Ohé, landlord!" shouted the commissary. "Another bottle of wine. No, don’t take out the stopper. Set it on the table there in front of me." The commissary gloated at the rotund wine-skin, but made no sign of opening it. Catching an enquiring glance from Jack, he said loftily: