‘We have all our troubles,’ said Leander, in a consoling tone; ‘but we will not speak now of vexations. I have just come from the country; Daubuz has written to me twice; he was at my house last night; I found him on my steps this morning. There is a grand affair on the tapis. The son of the Duke of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a business of the thousand and one nights; the whole county to be feasted. Camacho’s wedding will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a capon in every platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there is to be a party at the Castle, of double cream; princes of the blood, high relatives and grandees of the Golden Fleece. The duke’s cook is not equal to the occasion. ‘Tis an hereditary chef who gives dinners of the time of the continental blockade. They have written to Daubuz to send them the first artist of the age,’ said Leander; ‘and,’ added he, with some hesitation, ‘Daubuz has written to me.’ ‘And he did quite right, my child,’ said Prevost, ‘for there is not a man in Europe that is your equal. What do they say? That Abreu rivals you in flavour, and that Gaillard has not less invention. But who can combine _goût_ with new combinations? ‘Tis yourself, Leander; and there is no question, though you have only twenty-five years, that you are the chef of the age.’ ‘You are always very good to me, sir,’ said Leander, bending his head with great respect; ‘and I will not deny that to be famous when you are young is the fortune of the gods. But we must never forget that I had an advantage which Abreu and Gaillard had not, and that I was your pupil.’ ‘I hope that I have not injured you,’ said Papa Prevost, with an air of proud self-content. ‘What you learned from me came at least from a good school. It is something to have served under Napoleon,’ added Prevost, with the grand air of the Imperial kitchen. ‘Had it not been for Waterloo, I should have had the cross. But the Bourbons and the cooks of the Empire never could understand each other: They brought over an emigrant chef, who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to bring everything back to the time of the _oeil de bouf_. When Monsieur passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old family was doomed. But we gossip. You wished to consult me?’ ‘I want not only your advice but your assistance. This affair of the Duke of Bellamont requires all our energies. I hope you will accompany me; and, indeed, we must muster all our forces. It is not to be denied that there is a want, not only of genius, but of men, in our art. The cooks are like the civil engineers: since the middle class have taken to giving dinners, the demand exceeds the supply.’ ‘There is Andrien,’ said Papa Prevost; ‘you had some hopes of him?’