And--for a final and delightful detail--a vine grew
outside the house between the windows, whose tendrilled branches
twined about the casements.
"You are faithful to the old traditions, madame," said Pierquin, as he
received a plate of that celebrated thyme soup in which the Dutch and
Flemish cooks put little force-meat balls and dice of fried bread.
"This is the Sunday soup of our forefathers. Your house and that of my
uncle des Racquets are the only ones where we still find this historic
soup of the Netherlands. Ah! pardon me, old Monsieur Savaron de
Savarus of Tournai makes it a matter of pride to keep up the custom;
but everywhere else old Flanders is disappearing. Now-a-days
everything is changing; furniture is made from Greek models; wherever
you go you see helmets, lances, shields, and bows and arrows!
Everybody is rebuilding his house, selling his old furniture, melting
up his silver dishes, or exchanging them for Sevres porcelain,--which
does not compare with either old Dresden or with Chinese ware. Oh! as
for me, I'm Flemish to the core; my heart actually bleeds to see the
coppersmiths buying up our beautiful inlaid furniture for the mere
value of the wood and the metal. The fact is, society wants to change
its skin. Everything is being sacrificed, even the old methods of art.
When people insist on going so fast, nothing is conscientiously done.
During my last visit to Paris I was taken to see the pictures in the
Louvre.
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