the place most important to him had bequeathed to new and untried hands the post that he had filled for forty years. What of it? From that day it was with young Mathieu as it had been with old Mathieu. One glance into the brilliant saloon told him how many covers were required for supper, what wines, what viands, suited the occasion. One stately walk round the furnished table was enough for him to detect the minutest error or omission of his myrmidons. Not one of the hundreds of guests that visited the chateau crossed the great hall to whom the _maitre d'hotel_ was unable to assign on the spot the chamber he was to occupy, his place at table, and the degree of precedence to which he was entitled. Yes, M. Boulederouloue was assuredly a perfect master of his business; and what is more, the scores of servants under him were all masters of theirs, for he had a most simple and summary mode of dealing with any one that was not perfectly in order. The offending party was at once summoned to the presence of Monsieur Boulederouloue, who presented him with an order on the intendant for the wages due to him, and without a word waved his hand towards the door. Remonstrance and entreaty, or the assurance that it was a first fault, were alike in vain; a stare, a shrug, and just possibly the pithy injunction, "Go!" was the utmost they ever elicited from the _maitre d'hotel_; and as their wages were high and always paid to the day, a practice by no means common in great households in those times, the cases of delinquency were few, and M. Boulederouloue's staff, like himself, did their duty to perfection. And Monsieur Perigord, the _chef_? Well, if Monsieur Boulederouloue weighed twice as much as M. Jasmin, the latter certainly weighed twice as much as Monsieur Perigord. Diminutive and meagre to a degree, the master of the kitchen possessed a mighty soul, and was endowed with an energy of purpose that must have made him first and foremost in any sphere of life; but fate had ordained that he should only be the first and foremost cook in all the world, though as Beaujardin, and not Versailles, was the scene of his operations, it is only in these humble pages that his name will go down to posterity. Such was his restless vivacity, that in his ever ready denunciations of anything poor and mean, or cowardly, his shrivelled frame would quiver like a marionette on wires; he would rend in shreds his laced frill and ruffles, scattering thorn like snowflakes on the floor, and end by flinging after them his small pig-tailed queue, leaving all bare and bald a head that for colour and size might have been mistaken for an ostrich egg, but for the hawk-like beak and small fiery black eyes, that would have been ridiculous in any face but that of Monsieur Perigord.