Poitevin stood motionless by the sideboard, holding in his hands a bottle just taken from a cooling pitcher, his eyes fixed on the monumental tower of golden pastry that had been placed before his master. Sitting on a bergère by the window, her chin resting on the pommel of her stick, Marion watched spellbound. Finally, like two Levites assisting the high priest, Awa, Semacgus’s African maid, and Catherine Gauss stood holding between them a thin cloth which they gradually lowered over Monsieur de Noblecourt’s head as he bent to find the best spot at which to cut into the golden splendour. The point of the sharp knife entered the crust, and the religious silence was broken by a kind of hiss, followed by a deep intake of breath from the magistrate and an almost voluptuous moan of pleasure. A cheer went up from the assembled company. Marion, doubtless the inspiration if not the architect of this success, sighed with satisfaction. Poitevin brought the bottle and began serving. The two cooks carefully folded the cloth and the guests applauded the perfection of the ceremonial gesture. With a nimbleness of which he would not have been thought capable, the high priest cut a small hole in the pastry and was making ready to plunge the fork into the well of wonders when Semacgus, who was watching, stopped him.
‘What were you planning to do? You wouldn’t by any chance be thinking of digging into the soft crust to extract the splendours it contains, would you, Monsieur? What about your gout? Do you intend, in the teeth of the Faculty, to extinguish the fire of a good humour that delights your friends, all for the vain pleasure of a greed which will cause your hands, knees and feet to suffer for days? Do you set at nought the pain and sorrow of Marion, author of this bastion of succulence on which you are about to launch an attack as if you were a young blade? It can only lead to a resurgence of your rheumatism, followed by an attack of melancholy for which, Monsieur, I shall hold you entirely responsible. Was it not agreed that we would grant you the unique privilege of breathing in the first odours coming from this dish, a privilege that leaves us weak with envy, having ourselves to be content only with the heaviness of the quintessential products?’
‘I would happily burden myself with that quintessence!’ With a contrite expression, Monsieur de Noblecourt teased the hidden treasures of the culinary fortress with the end of his fork. ‘This is really cruel,’ he muttered, ‘and reminds me of the old Parisian story about a seller of roast meats who, when he demands payment from a customer, is paid with the mere clinking of coins. Well, I just have to resign myself to this sacrifice, I suppose, but I do ask one favour: let me taste a tiny bit of this treasure. A little piece of truffle, for example. It’s only a mushroom after all.’
‘No, no!’ replied Semacgus. ‘Even a little piece of truffle can cause constipation! I suggest a piece of pastry, although even that’s too much.’
‘A curse on old age! It deprives us of everything. Even when the spirit is willing, the body is weak. Does that mean we have to renounce these delights, compared with which our neighbours’ recipes are mere cheap nothings more easily tolerated amongst the Mangageats3 than in a refined climate like ours where cleanliness, delicacy and good taste are, alas, the true object of our zeal?’
‘Philosophise as much as you like, Monsieur, you won’t win us round,’ murmured Semacgus.
Monsieur de Noblecourt slowly savoured the spoils of war, as Catherine cut the smoking fortress into four.
‘Why four pieces?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Have you forgotten that I’m condemned not to have any of it?’
‘What?’ Marion said, equally surprised. ‘Have you forgotten the poor man’s portion? A fine Christian you are! Church warden of Saint-Eustache, to boot! And besides, what if I wanted to keep part of it for Nicolas? I’ll cover the plate and put it on a corner of the oven. That’ll keep it warm but won’t make it too dry. He needs something to sustain him with all the running about he does!’
‘It’s too much for an ingrate who so often deserts our banquets,’ protested Semacgus.
Monsieur de Noblecourt threw him a stern look. ‘Weren’t you young once? And have we done all we could to try and understand him and support him in a difficult situation?’
To divert them, Marion spoke up, her face flushing. ‘If Monsieur so desires, I’ll tell you my recipe.’
‘Go on. The telling is often as succulent as the eating.’
The old cook threw a sideways glance at Monsieur La Borde. ‘First, I must tell you that I got the recipe from Monsieur there.’
The cries of the guest covered her voice. La Borde, feigning embarrassment, hid his face in his napkin. He assumed a pitiful tone. ‘Merely an attempt to relieve the austerity of my host’s life. And besides, this recipe is not even mine. Its author is His Royal Highness Louis-Auguste de Bourbon, Prince de Dombes, governor of Languedoc.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Bourdeau sardonically. ‘A grandson of the great Bourbon, no less!’
‘This promises a fine diversion!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘After the aroma, the recitation of my cook’s fine deeds, then my guests feasting, and all I get is a wretched piece of pastry!’
Marion smiled, allowed them their joke, then took advantage of a short silence to resume speaking, anxious to play a role in this celebration.
‘I make some very thin shortcrust pastry,’ she began, ‘and while I’m letting it cool, I prepare the stuffing: foie gras with a lot of grated bacon, parsley, chives, mushrooms and chopped truffles. It’s better to do this early, that way it’ll taste better. I open a few dozen green oysters from Cancale, as many as I need, whiten them in their own water and drain them in a sieve to keep the liquid. Then I put the stuffing in the bottom of the mould, with a layer of oysters over it, and so on. I cover the whole thing with a sheet of pastry brushed with egg to make it turn golden. When the oven’s quite hot, I put it in and let it bake as long as necessary. Meanwhile …’ – and here she pointed to a silver sauce dish – ‘I make a sauce with the water from the oysters, to which I add two pieces of bread with melted butter from Vanvres and finely chopped herbs. Then I season it with lemon juice. It’s a matter of taste, but I find it makes the stuffing nice and moist and gives the oysters their natural flavour back.’
‘And what’s the name of this marvel?’ asked Noblecourt, his eyes bulging with desire. ‘I didn’t know Marion could describe her culinary dexterity in such a poetic fashion.’
‘Ungrateful wretch!’ said Semacgus. ‘She’s been serving him for forty years and he’s only just discovered how good she is!’
‘Forty-three, to be precise,’ said Marion modestly. ‘But, to answer Monsieur, the name is tour farcie aux huîtres vertes. I should add that the secret lies in the shortcrust pastry, which is kneaded for such a long time that it appears quite light and flaky but is actually firm enough to hold the stuffing.’
‘It’s true,’ said La Borde with a smile, ‘that to hear it talked about is to eat it twice.’
‘I wonder,’ said Semacgus, ‘if just hearing this recitation won’t reawaken our host’s gout? That would be the revenge of Comus!’
They all burst out laughing. Nicolas listened to them, feeling sad and happy at the same time. It was strange to be witnessing this feast without his friends being aware of his presence. He could not bring himself to open the door and cross the threshold into the light. The