The secretary laughed in the discreet way of a man who has always been
obliged to control his emotions.
'This is the Imperial kitchen,' said he, indicating a large tent just
outside the headquarters. 'Here is Borel, the second cook, at the door.
How many pullets to-day, Borel?'
'Ah, Monsieur de Meneval, it is heartrending,' cried the cook. 'Behold
them!' and, drawing back the flap of the entrance, he showed us seven
dishes, each of them containing a cold fowl. 'The eighth is now on the
fire and done to a turn, but I hear that His Majesty has started for the
review, so we must put on a ninth.'
'That is how it is managed,' said my companion, as we turned from the
tent. 'I have known twenty-three fowls got ready for him before he
asked for his meal. That day he called for his dinner at eleven at
night. He cares little what he eats or drinks, but he will not be kept
waiting. Half a bottle of Chambertin, a red mullet, or a pullet a la
Marengo satisfy every need, but it is unwise to put pastry or cream upon
the table, because he is as likely as not to eat it before the fowl.
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