In the home of the Abbé Ledoux, the following scene occurred between him and the canon. The threatening predictions of the great cook were beginning to be realised. Dom Diégo, pale, dejected, with a complexion yellowed by abstinence,--for all dishes seemed to him tasteless and nauseating since the marvellous breakfast of which he constantly dreamed,--would scarcely have been recognised. His enormous stomach had already lost its rotundity, and the poor man, whose physiognomy and attitude betrayed abject misery, responded in a mournful tone to the questions of the abbé, who, walking up and down the parlour in the greatest agitation, addressed him in a rude and angry tone: "In truth, you have not the least energy, Dom Diégo; you have fallen into a desperate state of apathy." "That is easy for you to say," murmured the canon, in a grieved tone. "I would like very much to see you in my place, alas!" "Oh, come now, this is shameful!" "Abuse me, abbé, curse me; but what do you want? Since this accursed man has abandoned me I live no longer, I eat no longer, I sleep no longer! Ah, he well said, 'My memory and my face will pursue you everywhere, canon!' In fact, I am always thinking of the Guinea fowl eggs, the trout, and the roast à la Sardanapalus. And he, I see him always and everywhere in his white jacket and cotton cap. It is like a hallucination. To-night, even, yielding myself to a feverish, nervous slumber, I dreamed of this demon." "Better and better, canon." "What a nightmare! My God! what a horrible nightmare! He had served me with one of those exquisite, divine dishes, which he alone has the genius to produce, and he said to me, with his sardonic air, 'Eat, canon, eat.' It was, I recollect,--I see it still,--a delicious reed-bird with orange sauce. I had a devouring appetite; I took my knife and fork to carve the adorable little bird; I was carving it into slices, golden outside and rosy within, and veined with such fine, delicate fat. A thousand little drops of rosy juice appeared on the flesh, like so many drops of dew, to such a point was it roasted. I steeped it in several spoonfuls of orange sauce whose flavour tickled my palate, before I tasted it. I took on the end of my fork a royal mouthful; I opened my mouth. Suddenly the ferocious laughter of my executioner resounded, and horror! I had on the end of my fork only a great piece of rancid, glutinous, infected yellow bacon. 'Eat, canon, why do you not eat?' repeated this accursed man, in his strident voice. 'Why do you not eat?' And in spite of myself, in spite of my terrible repugnance, I ate! Yes, abbé, I ate this disgusting bacon. Oh, when I think of it,--bah! it was horrible. And I awoke, bathed in tears. Night before last another odious dream. It was about eel-pout livers, and--" "Go to the devil, canon!" cried the abbé, already provoked by this recital of Dom Diégo's gastronomic nightmare, "you are enough to damn a saint with your maudlin prattle."