We had no sooner entered this salon, taken possession of a vacant table, and called for coffee, than my companion was beset by a storm of greetings. "Holà! Müller, where hast thou been hiding these last few centuries, _mon gaillard?_" "_Tiens!_ Müller risen from the dead!" "What news from _là bas,_ old fellow?" To all which ingenious pleasantries my companion replied in kind--introducing me at the same time to two or three of the nearest speakers. One of these, a dark young man got up in the style of a Byzantine Christ, with straight hair parted down the middle, a bifurcated beard, and a bare throat, was called Eugène Droz. Another--big, burly, warm-complexioned, with bright open blue eyes, curling reddish beard and moustache, slouched hat, black velvet blouse, immaculate linen, and an abundance of rings, chains, and ornaments--was made up in excellent imitation of the well-known portrait of Rubens. This gentleman's name, as I presently learned, was Caesar de Lepany. When we came in, these two young men, Droz and De Lepany, were discussing, in enthusiastic but somewhat unintelligible language, the merits of a certain Monsieur Lemonnier, of whom, although till that moment ignorant of his name and fame, I at once perceived that he must be some celebrated _chef de cuisine_. "He will never surpass that last thing of his," said the Byzantine youth. "Heavens! How smooth it is! How buttery! How pulpy!" "Ay--and yet with all that lusciousness of quality, he never wants piquancy," added De Lepany. "I think his greens are apt to be a little raw," interposed Müller, taking part in the conversation. "Raw!" echoed the first speaker, indignantly. "_Eh, mon Dieu!_ What can you be thinking of! They are almost too hot!" "But they were not so always, Eugène," said he of the Rubens make-up, with an air of reluctant candor. "It must be admitted that Lemonnier's greens used formerly to be a trifle--just a trifle--raw. Evidently Monsieur Müller does not know how much he has taken to warming them up of late. Even now, perhaps, his olives are a little cold." "But then, how juicy his oranges are!" exclaimed young Byzantine. "True--and when you remember that he never washes--!" "Ah, _sacredie!_ yes--there is the marvel!" And Monsieur Eugène Droz held up his hands and eyes with all the reverent admiration of a true believer for a particularly dirty dervish. "Who, in Heaven's name, is this unclean individual who used to like his vegetables underdone, and never washes?" whispered I in Müller's ear. "What--Lemonnier! You don't mean to say you never heard of Lemonnier?" "Never, till now. Is he a cook?" Müller gave me a dig in the ribs that took my breath away. "_Goguenard!_" said he. "Lemonnier's an artist--the foremost man of the water-color school. But I wouldn't be too funny if I were you. Suppose you were to burst your jocular vein--there'd be a catastrophe!"