Tousky Wousky took another spoonful, then suddenly seized a tumbler of iced water to drown the recollection of the nauseous compound. Turning to Deflamzi, he said, “What do you call this—stuff, my dear count?” “It is Soup _à la Julien_ to be sure, and very good.” “Soup _à la Julien_!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, “I should call it soup à la swill-pail. I never tasted anything half so bad. Here, _garçon_! take this plate away, and tell the cook I shall have him indicted for an attempt to poison.” “Oui, monsieur.” The dinner was a good dinner, and Tousky Wousky was suffered to finish the remainder of it in peace. Just before the dessert was introduced, Count Deflamzi was called out by a servant, and begging to be excused for a few minutes, quitted the apartment. He had not been gone long when the same servant re-entered and informed Tousky Wousky, that the cook, to whom he had sent the message touching the soup, desired to speak with him. “Show him in! show him in!” exclaimed several voices. “Ten to one, he means to challenge you, Tousky Wousky, for abusing his soup. Ha! ha! ha!” Tousky Wousky began to look pale, but tried to laugh it off, and said, “Nonsense! I can’t see the fellow now. Tell him to call on me at my hotel.” “That won’t do. Show him in, _garçon_, show him in!” cried Tom Cawley, who was Allen’s principal ally in the plot. Here the cook burst into the room. He had on a white cap and a white apron. A white apron was thrown over his shoulder, and his hands were white with flour. “Alphonse!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, starting up with dismay, as he gazed on the once familiar apparition. “Count Deflamzi!” ejaculated Mrs. Remnant. “This is indeed eccentric.” “No more Count Deflamzi, madame, than this is Count Tousky, but plain Alphonse Fricandeau, gastronomical artist, or in vulgar language, cook, from Paris.” “What! isn’t he a count?” “No, madame; he is a cook!” “A cook! my salts, Mr. Remnant! Quick, you stupid man!” “I appeal to the company,” said Tousky Wousky, recovering himself, “Madame, this is a conspiracy. I can produce letters from the first noblemen in London—” “The company shall soon be satisfied on that point,” said Monsieur Fricandeau. “Eugene, request the attendance of Lord Morvale.” At the sound of this name, Tousky Wousky sank into his chair quite unmanned. Lord Morvale soon entered, and after bowing to the rest of the company, turned to Tousky Wousky, and said, “At your old tricks, Philippe! Rogue! Have I found you at last?” “Count Tousky Wousky a rogue! What does it all mean?” asked old Mr. Remnant, who could not well comprehend what was going on.