'My grandfather,' he began, 'was a soldier of the Guard, and
served under Napoleon. He was in the retreat from Moscow, and
lived for ten days on his own leggings and a pair he stole from
a comrade. He used to get drunk -- he died drunk, and I remember
playing at drums on his coffin. My father --'
Here we suggested that he might skip his ancestry and come to
the point.
'Bien, messieurs!' replied this comical little man, with a polite
bow. 'I did only wish to demonstrate that the military principle
is not hereditary. My grandfather was a splendid man, six feet
two high, broad in proportion, a swallower of fire and gaiters.
Also he was remarkable for his moustache. To me there remains
the moustache and -- nothing more.
'I am, messieurs, a cook, and I was born at Marseilles. In that
dear town I spent my happy youth. For years and years I washed
the dishes at the Hotel Continental. Ah, those were golden days!'
and he sighed. 'I am a Frenchman. Need I say, messieurs, that
I admire beauty? Nay, I adore the fair. Messieurs, we admire
all the roses in a garden, but we pluck one. I plucked one,
and alas, messieurs, it pricked my finger. She was a chambermaid,
her name Annette, her figure ravishing, her face an angel's,
her heart -- alas, messieurs, that I should have to own it! --
black and slippery as a patent leather boot.
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