CHAPTER VIII THE ERGATES; THE COSSUS This is Shrove Tuesday, a relic of the saturnalia of old; and I have it in my mind to do some strange cooking, which would have delighted the soul of a Roman gourmet. When I let my imagination run away with me, I want my folly to achieve some measure of notoriety. I must have witnesses, connoisseurs who will be able, each in his fashion, to appreciate the merits of an unknown fare of which none but the classical scholar has ever heard before. A question so serious must be debated in council. There will be eight of us: my family, to begin with, and then two friends, probably the only persons in the village in whose presence I may venture on these eccentricities of the table without provoking comments on what would be regarded as a depraved taste. One of them is the schoolmaster. Let us call him by his name, Julian, as he has no objection and is not afraid of what foolish people will say if ever they get to hear of our banquet. He is a man of liberal views and scientific training, whose mind is always open to admit the truth in any guise. The second, Marius Guigne, is blind. A joiner by trade, he wields his saw and plane in the blackest darkness with as sure a hand as any skilled craftsman who enjoys the full use of his eyes can exercise in broad daylight. He lost his sight when a boy, after knowing the blessings of the sunshine and the miracles of colour. To make up for the perpetual gloom in which he lives, he has acquired a gentle and ever-cheerful philosophy, a passionate desire to fill as best he can the gaps left by his meagre primary education, an ear exquisitely refined in musical matters and a sensitiveness of skin which is very unusual in fingers hardened by the labour of the carpenter’s shop. When he and I are talking, if he wants to know something about this or that geometrical property, he holds out his hand to me, wide open. It is our black-board. I trace with my forefinger the figure to be constructed and accompany the light contact with a short explanation. That is enough to make him understand the idea which the plane, the saw and the lathe will translate into actuality. On Sunday afternoons, especially in winter, when three or four logs blazing on the hearth afford a pleasant change from the fierce blast of the mistral, these two meet at my house. We three form the village Athenæum, the rustic Academy where everything is discussed except the hateful subject, politics. Philosophy, morals, literature, philology, science, history, numismatics, archæology by turns furnish matter for our exchange of ideas, in accordance with the unforeseen twists of the conversation. At one of these gatherings, which lighten my solitude, today’s dinner was plotted. The unusual dish consists of Cossi, a famous delicacy in the days of antiquity. The Romans, when they had devoured their fill of nations, besotted by excessive luxury, took to eating worms. Pliny tells us: