But the goose Mimi came to him and, after enquiring the cause of his sorrow, said: “Dry your tears, for I think I can help you in this matter. This dish was frequently set upon my father’s table and I know pretty well how it was concocted. Even if I cannot tell you every single ingredient, you will no doubt flavour the pie so deliciously that the Prince will not detect any omission.” She then proceeded to name to the dwarf the various ingredients required. He was ready to jump for joy, and blessed the day upon which he had purchased the goose, and then set to work to make the pasty. He made a little trial one to begin with and it tasted delicious. He gave the head cook a piece to taste and he could not say enough in praise of it. The following morning he made a large one and sent it to table decorated with wreaths of flowers. He dressed himself in his state robes and entered the dining hall just as the carver had served the Duke and his guest with slices of the pasty. The Duke took a large mouthful and then cast his eyes up towards the ceiling. “Ah!” said he, as soon as he could speak, “this has been truly called the queen of pasties, and as for my cook, he is the king of cooks. What say you, dear friend?” The guest took one or two mouthfuls before answering, and then, having well tasted the flavour, he said rather scornfully as he pushed away his plate: “It is as I thought! It is an excellent pasty no doubt, but not the Souzeraine.” The Duke frowned and reddened with anger--“Dog of a dwarf,” cried he, “how dare you treat me so? I have a good mind to have your head chopped off as a punishment for your bad cookery.” “My lord, I assure you I have made the pasty according to all the rules of the art of cookery,” replied the dwarf trembling. “It is false, you rascal,” replied the Duke, kicking him away. “If it were right my guest would not say it was wrong. I have a good mind to have you made into mincemeat and baked in a pie yourself.” “Have mercy,” cried the poor little man, prostrating himself before the royal guest and clasping his feet in his arms. “I pray you tell me what I have left out of the pasty that it fails to suit your palate? Do not condemn me to death for a handful of meat and flour.” “It will be of little assistance to you to know, my dear Long-Nose,” answered the Prince with a smile, “I was quite certain yesterday that you would not be able to make this pasty as well as my cook can, because the chief requisite is a herb which does not grow in this country. It is known as ‘The Cook’s Delight,’ and without this the pasty is practically tasteless, and your master will never eat it with the same pleasure that I can in my own country.”