Alfred de Rosann by G.W.M. Reynolds — page 163: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

138 Alfred de Rosann. the exquisite refinement of the former, or the delicate taste of the latter, whose usual food was peacock’s brains and sparrow’s tongues. As Mr. Clayton was walking down the street, directing his ste towards the quay, he was struck by the cleanly appearance of a new shop for the sale of comestibles, or friandises, which had only been opened that morning. A few loiterers were standing oppo- site the entrance, gazing on the poulets truffes, the patés de foie gras, the chevreuil, and a variety of other dainties, spread in gor- geous array along the clean boards that slanted and projected on each side of the door. Mr. Clayton stopped for a moment, to regale himself with the odour of savoury meats that issued from the kitchen; and seeing some game apparently suited to his taste, he entered the shop to purchase it. An individual, whose head was enveloped in a white night-cap, stepped forward, uttered an exclamation of delight, and seized the hand of his customer, who would as soon have found himself in the midst of Araby’s hottest desart, as exposed to so friendly a welcome from one whom he speedily discovered to be the officious cook he had seen on the premises of Louis Dorval. ‘¢ Do you not recollect me?” shouted Champignon. ‘“’T'was I that served up your breakfast a few days ago—” ‘¢ Yes—yes, my good friend—lI think I call to mind—” ‘¢O you need not think,” cried the gastronomer, at length in- duced to relinquish Mr. Clayton’s hand; ‘for by enumerating the various dishes you partook of, I can speedily satisfy you as to the truth of my assertion.” ‘¢ There’s a man that does not choose to be misunderstood !”. re marked one of the loiterers outside. ‘¢T dare say Monsieur Citron” (for that was the name Cham- pignon had adopted), ‘has recognised his friend or acquaintance Cornichon,” said another: and a hearty laugh followed this exe- crable piece of wit. Mr. Clayton's indignation, or rather confusion, knew no bounds. He was in an ill humour when he entered the shop; the present scene did not help to cool his temper. Ashamed, however, to give vent to his wrath in public, he inquired the price of a brace of pheasants; and Champignon hastened to describe the peculiar excellencies of a variety of dishes, having placed an exorbitant value on the birds which had originally attracted his present customer. ‘© Well—well !” cried Mr. Clayton, wearied of the gastronomer’s explanations, and anxious to escape from the rude gaze of the loiterers at the door; ‘‘ have the kindness to send them to my lodgings”— and he gave the address. ‘*The pheasants, and the other articles I recommended ?”’ in- quired Champignon. ‘¢ Yes—any thing you choose,” replied Mr. Clayton, scarcely comprehending a word that was said to him, so great was his confusion. ‘‘Q but you must cast a single gance at my kitchen!” ex- claimed the provoking Champignon, laying hold of his customer’s COnicbooolks (GO)