"Behave yourself, sir," Dundas said to him, genuinely shocked, "behave yourself. A well-brought-up dog never, never does that. A good dog never barks indoors, never, never, never."

Germaine's pet was offended and disappeared for three days. The orderlies reported he had been seen in the country in doubtful company. At last he returned, cheerful and unkempt, with one ear torn and one eye bleeding, and asked to be let in by barking merrily.

"You're a very naughty dog, sir," said Dundas as he nursed him adroitly, "a very, very bad little dog indeed."

Whereupon he turned towards the general.

"I'm very much afraid, sir," he said, "that this fellow d.i.c.k is not quite a gentleman."

"He's a French dog," replied General Bramble with sorrowful forbearance.

CHAPTER VIII

A GREAT CHEF

"Le roi ordonnait le matin pet.i.t souper ou tres pet.i.t souper; mais ce dernier etait abondant et de trois services sans le fruit."--Saint-Simon.

In the month of February 1918, Aurelle was ordered by the French mission at British G.H.Q. to report at the _sous-prefecture_ at Abbeville and to hold himself for one day at the disposal of M.

Lucas, who would call for him in due course.

Aurelle waited for some time for M. Lucas, who eventually appeared escorted by an English chauffeur. He was a rather stout, clean-shaven little man, and wore a well-made blue suit and a yachting cap. With his hands in his pockets, his curt speech and the authority of his demeanour, he looked every inch a man accustomed to command.

"You are the interpreter from G.H.Q.?" he asked. "Have you a written order?"

Aurelle was obliged to admit he had only received an order by telephone.

"I can't understand it!" said M. Lucas. "The most necessary precautions are neglected. Have you at least been told who I am? No?

Well, listen to me, my friend, and kindly hold your tongue for a minute."

He went and shut the door of the _sous-prefet's_ office, and came back to the interpreter. "I am----" he began.

He looked nervously about him, closed a window, and whispered very softly, "I am His Majesty the King of England's chef."

"Chef?" Aurelle repeated, not grasping his meaning.

"His Majesty the King of England's chef," the great man deigned to repeat, smiling kindly at the astonishment the young man showed at this revelation.

"You must know, my friend, that to-morrow the President of the Republic is to be His Majesty's guest in this town. The activity of the German airmen obliges us to keep the programme secret till the last moment. However, I have been sent out in advance with Sir Charles to inspect the British Officers' Club, where the lunch is to take place. You are to accompany me there."

So they set off for the former Chateau de Vauclere, now transformed by British genius for comfort into an officers' club, Aurelle escorting the royal cook and the equerry, who was an old English gentleman with a pink face, white whiskers and grey spats. Above their heads circled the squadron of aeroplanes which had been ordered to protect the favoured city.

During the drive, M. Lucas condescended to say a few words of explanation.

"Our lunch is to be quite informal; the menu very simple--ever since the beginning of the war His Majesty has expressed a wish to be rationed like his people--river trout, _tournedos aux pommes,_ some fruit, and cider to drink."

"But, Monsieur Lucas," interrupted Sir Charles timidly, "you know Her Majesty prefers to drink milk."

"The Queen will drink cider like every one else," replied the chef curtly.

Sir Charles was charmed with the paved courtyard of the chateau, the brick and stone facade with its carved escutcheons, the simple curves of the dining-room panelling, and the picture over the door, which he attributed, not without reason, to Nattier.

"It's very, very small," murmured M. Lucas pensively. "However, as it's war-time----"

Then he inquired about the kitchen. It was a vast and well-lighted place; the red and white tiles on the polished floor shone brightly in the sunshine; magnificent but useless copper saucepans hung upon the walls.

In front of the oven a cook in a white cap was at work with a few a.s.sistants. Surprised by the noise, he turned round, and, suddenly recognizing the man in the blue suit, went as white as his cap, and dropped the pan he was holding in his hand.

"You?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, my friend," replied the august visitor quite simply. "What a surprise to find you here! What a pleasure also," he added kindly.

"Ah, now I feel relieved! An alfresco meal, a strange kitchen like this, made me very anxious, I must confess. But with such a lieutenant as you, my dear friend, the battle is already half won."

"Yes," he continued, turning towards Aurelle, who was gazing with emotion upon the encounter and thinking of Napoleon entrusting his cavalry to Ney on the eve of Waterloo, "it is a curious coincidence to find Jean Paillard here. At the age of fifteen we made our _debut_ together under the great Escoffier. When I was appointed chef to the Ritz, Paillard took charge of the Carlton; when I took Westminster, he accepted Norfolk."

Having thus unconsciously delivered himself of this romantic couplet--which goes to prove once again that poetry is the ancient and natural expression of all true feeling--M. Lucas paused for a moment, and, lowering his gaze, added in an infinitely expressive undertone:

"And here I am now with the King. What about you?"

"I?" replied the other with a touch of shame. "It's only two months since I was released; till then I was in the trenches."

"What!" exclaimed M. Lucas, scandalized. "In the trenches? A chef like you!"

"Yes," answered Jean Paillard with dignity. "I was cook at G.H.Q."

With a shrug of resignation the two artists deplored the waste of talent for which armed democracies are responsible; and M. Lucas began in resolute tones to announce his plan of campaign. He had the curt precision which all great captains possess.

"Since the war broke out, His Majesty has expressed a wish to be rationed like his people. Therefore the menu is to be very simple: _truite a la Bellevue, tournedos aux pommes_, some fruit.--Of course there will have to be an entree and some dessert for the Staff. The drink will be cider."

"May I remind you, Monsieur Lucas," Sir Charles put in anxiously, "that Her Majesty prefers to drink milk?"

"I have already told you," said the chef, annoyed, "that the Queen will drink cider like everybody else.... Nevertheless, Paillard, you will kindly show me the contents of your cellar; there will, of course, have to be wine for the Staff. The _tournedos_, I need hardly say, are to be grilled over a charcoal fire, and larded, of course.

As to salad--seasoning, tomatoes and walnuts----"

As he gave his orders, he ill.u.s.trated their execution with gestures of the utmost solemnity, and his hands moved busily amongst imaginary saucepans.

"The menu is short," he said, "but it must be perfect. The great cook is better recognized by the perfection of a piece of beef--or let me say rather by the seasoning of a salad--than by the richness of his sweets. One of the finest successes in my career--the one I enjoy recalling above all others--is that of having initiated the English aristocracy into the mysteries of Camembert. The choice of fruit--now I come to think of it, Paillard, have you any peaches?"

"I should think we had!" said the latter, breaking open the lid of a crate which revealed a number of delicately shaded ripe peaches glowing in their beds of straw and cotton-wool.

The chef took one and stroked it gently.

"Paillard, Paillard," he said sadly, "do you call _these_ peaches? I can see you have been a soldier, poor fellow. Never mind, I can send the car to Montreuil."

He remained a few minutes longer in meditation; then, satisfied at last, he decided to leave the chateau. In the street, he took Aurelle's arm very kindly.