“Nothing, Monsieur Lavenne; God forbid that it should. I was about to say that, just as all cookery stands on an egg, so does the whole world stand on commonsense; and it is not commonsense to think that any man would poison Atalanta, who was a gentle beast, on purpose to spite his Majesty. Atalanta, in my opinion, poisoned herself. Dogs are not like cats. If you will observe, a cat is very nice in her feeding. Offer her even a piece of fish, and she will sniff it to make sure that it is in good condition and not poisonous, before she will touch it. Whereas dogs eat everything.” “Dogs eat roses,” said a small voice. It was Brommard’s little son, who, dressed in a white cap and apron, was serving his apprenticeship as a scullion. He had drawn close to his father, and had listened solemnly to the discourse about eggs. Brommard glanced down and laughed, then he excused himself for a moment to supervise the work of one of the under-cooks, who was larding a fowl. “Oh,” said Lavenne, “dogs eat roses, do they? And how do you know?” “Monsieur,” said the child, “I have seen Atalanta, the beautiful dog of his Majesty, snap at a rose. I told my father when they were saying that Atalanta was poisoned, and I said that I had seen Atalanta eat a rose, and that perhaps the rose had killed her, and he laughed. But dogs do eat roses.” “And where did you see Atalanta eat this rose?” “It was near Les Onze Arpents, monsieur. A gentleman and a lady were walking together, and he was holding a rose in his hand. The rose was hanging down, so, and the dog, who was following them, sniffed at the rose and then bit it.” “Yes—yes?” “Well, monsieur, the gentleman, when he saw what the dog had done, threw the rose away behind his back into some bushes; the lady did not see, she was talking and laughing.” “What day was this?” “The day before Atalanta died, monsieur.” “What was the gentleman like?” “Very ugly, monsieur, and pitted with the smallpox.” “And the lady?” “Oh, I don’t know, monsieur, but she walked with a limp.” “Ah, well,” said Lavenne, “dogs may eat roses, but roses do not poison dogs; so I would advise you to forget what you saw, or the ugly gentleman may be angry with you. You seem a bright boy, and here is something to buy sweets with. You are learning to be a cook, I suppose?” “Monsieur,” said the child, gravely, “I am a cook. I can lard a fowl and make an omelette and a mayonnaise, and I have committed to memory the rules and recipes of twenty-three sauces out of the two hundred and twenty-three that my father knows. Yet, all the same, I must serve my apprenticeship as a scullion, cleaning pots and pans and preparing vegetables and fish and game. But I do not grumble.” Little Brommard—destined to be the cook of Napoleon—put the coin Lavenne had given him in his pocket, and, thanking the latter, went off to supervise another scullion who was at work on some vegetables, whilst Lavenne, bidding good-bye to Brommard _père_, took his departure.