A very penetrating and very sweet perfume burned in a censer hanging from one of the rafters of the ceiling. Seated on a luxurious divan, the captain of the _Sybarite_ said to his guest: “Excuse this poor hospitality, my comrade. I would prefer to replace these poor girls with Egyptian slaves, who, equipped with ewers of Corinthian metal, would sprinkle, as they sang, rose-scented snow-water on our hands.” “You do not lack vases and ewers, Trimalcyon,” said Pog, throwing a significant glance at the sideboard. “Ah, well, yes, there are vases of gold and silver, but what is that compared to the Corinthian metal of which antiquity speaks: a metal made of a mixture of gold, silver, and bronze, and so marvellously wrought that a large ewer and basin only weighed one pound? By Sardanapalus! comrade, some day I must make a descent on Messina. They say that the viceroy possesses several antique statuettes of that precious metal. But take some of this partridge pudding spiced with wild aniseed; I had it served on its silver gridiron burning hot. Or do you prefer these imitations of pea-fowl eggs? You will find there, instead of the yellow, a very fat tit-lark, well yellowed, and, instead of the white, a thick sauce of cooked cream.” “Your fine vocabulary of gormandising ought to win for you the esteem of your cook. You appear to me to be made, both of you, for the purpose of understanding each other,” said Pog, eating with disdainful indifference the delicate dishes served by his host. “My cook,” replied Trimalcyon, “understands me well enough, in fact, although sometimes he has his discouragements; he regrets France, from which country I carried him off unawares. I have tried to console him, for a long time, with everything,--silver, money, attention,--nothing succeeds however, so I have finished where I ought to have begun, with a severe bastinado, and am quite well satisfied with it, and he is too, I suppose, since he cooks wonderfully, as you see. Give us something to drink, Orangine!” called Trimalcyon to the mulattress, who poured out a glorious glass of Bordeaux wine. “What is that wine, Crow-provender?” asked he of the negro dwarf, holding his glass up to his eyes to judge its colour. “My lord, it was taken, in the month of June, from a Bordeaux brigantine on its way to Genoa.” “H’m, h’m,” said Trimalcyon, tasting it, “it is good, very good, but there is the inconvenience of supplying ourselves as we do, friend Pog: we never have the same quality, so if we get accustomed to one kind of wine, we meet with cruel disappointments. Ah! our trade is not a bed of roses. But you do not drink! Fill Seigneur Fog’s glass, Swan-skin,” said Trimalcyon, to the white Circassian, pointing to his guest’s cup. Pog, as a refusal, placed his finger over his glass. “At least, let us drink to the success of our descent upon La Ciotat, comrade.” Pog replied to this new invitation by a movement of contemptuous impatience.