Richmond Palladium (Daily), Volume 34, Number 188, 15 May 1909 — Page 6

Sssyrlght, 1909, by Benj. B. Hampton.

T those who had found, under the crash ing elevated, Paris transplanted in. the shape . of the Cafe Cote d'Or,. the place more than a fad, . it was a religion, reverently they applied themselves to the ;, , Elysianlike i dishes borne to them from that land of pleasant odors the kitchen; softly, In low, serious tones, they conversed with Monsieur Casserole, the proprietor, who hovered over them with thin hands clasped and the hope that all was ell. Scornfully, rightly indignant that mercenary matters should have theU- place in a dinner at the Cote d'Or, they laid, the amount of their score on the counter in front of Madame Casserole, who lat there in her little cage year after year, smiling benignantly upon all over . her encored chin, ah, what a cafe was "that! It was not, first of all, a place to eat; it was rather a quiet nook where, over an incidental corHal. one might dream oneself back across the sea ind under the sidewalk awnings' of the gay city, in the shade of the absinthe frapee. Into the sacred precincts of the Cote d'Or one sight a stranger roamed, and Monsieur Casserole rill tell you that he sipped delightedly his wine, tnd lingered, loth to go, over the delicious omelet ouffle. Then with a nod he summoned the proprietor and spoke most pompously. "This omelet," said the stranger, Indicating an jmpty dish, "hag pleased me more than I can say. t am most anxious to go into your kitchen and in person thank the master of cookery who made :t" :-.';v?:';-:- '' '-' Sacre bleu! what a wild indignity to propose. To suggest, thus calmly a Journey, the great of the earth might well have taken, with trepidation; to Imagine thus coolly the: interruption of Adolphe In his own stronghold; to risk thus ruthlessly the Jestruction of another omelet such as this Just latent And for what, pray? For the paltry excuse of saying to him whose cookery had brought in emperor's smile: "For your omelet I thank you." Mon Dieu! Monsieur Casserole, usually so polite, stiffened almost rudely, as he informed his unknown gueat: v "What Monsieur suggests is quite Impossible." And so it was." There had been those who had been granted such audiences. The number of the worthy was five, and all of these, long before the honor had sought them out, had known the master by his works, had worshipped from afar, and. had sent, now and again, by the dignity of Monsieur Casserole, words of adoration and fealty. There was Dupree, who had dreamed of seeing his paintings In the Salon, but who saw them only as stirring scenes for a Third Avenue melodrama; also little Margaret Gates, who wrote for the magazines, only most of them didn't know it yet, and whom Dupree would have married had she not already been married to her Art, as well as unfortunately possessed of a chin that would not allow her to sue for divorce, even in the hungry days when she might easily have obtained it on the ground of nonsupport. And there was Masters, the lean medical Student, who dreamed of feats of surgery, carving cadavers by day and the cotelettes of the Cote d'Or by night, and Hargrave, hack of hacks, who ground out Jokes clipped them from Western newspapers, his enemies said for comic operas that brought other men fame. And lastly Betty Martin those who follow the society column in one of the big dallies have seen that name, not in the list of those present, but as the signature at the bottom of the ttory. Such was the roll of the privileged. Such was the roster of the five who, dining tot-ether late one evening in the Cafe Cote d'Or, all unsuspecting of the honor that was about to fall upon them, came finally Into the presence of the cook who bad sent them daily for months beautiful evidence of his ability to fulfill the glowing promise of the Cote d'Or's card. Adolphe stood In the center of his kitchen, mass lve, bald even below his snowy cap, his cherubic face undecided between a smile and a frown as the proper badge of greatness, but leaning slightly toward the latter in the midst of the tools' of his trade, in the center of his marvelous kitchen ah, that kitchen! At last Adolphe spoke; soft, pleasing was his Toice. Afterwards they told one another that at sound of his they were reminded of the liquid smoothness of his bouillabaisse. "You think I am great," he said, and they made no attempt to deny it ; "you call me master of cvoks, and not for one moment have you guess . the secret of my power. It lies here," and he lifted a fold of his spotless apron, while the five marveled, "here, In this, my apron. To you maybe, an apron, nothing else. To me parbleu! all what you say divine fire! Twenty year ago he give it to me be, my teacher, the great master, Bertrand de Bouillon himself, of Paris. From himself he took it. and to me it was given. Never am I without it. At night I carry it to my home, and Nanette ma femme makes it white for the morrow. As the painter or the sculptor has his model to furnish the pattern ah, the inspiration so to me is the apron of Bertrand de Bouillon. Without it morbleu! that which I cook you would not eat. For my filets, my omelets, my escargots, thank not , me. Think not of me. Of him only think of Bertrand de Bouillon, be of the far-off Paris,' who made known to me the littlest thing I know; who gave me his apron that I m!ght wear It to his glory.-and. that of France. Ventre-bleu! what ma& wa that V . They talked no more tt night of A.-t,but the theme of their dr3urse waa a-ways ibis wonderful aproa, this gift of Bertracd de Bouillon,, the : mighty chef of whom they had heard. - They specu- . Hcl o the texture of this b:t t cloth upon wU.;ung the deattny of thtfr precious cafe, and a tao pervonallt; atf the wile, Nanette, to whom St - waa J&truted e2k night, that she might restore It to whittneas blle its wearer slept, gath

ering strength for the morrow's omelets. Dupree thought he had seen one like it some whet e, but they laughed him to scorn, and when Bet'.y Martin" claimed to have touched it while no one saw, they sneered at her, in the manner of townspeople too clever not to discount the boast of the traveler returned. Would it wear out? Horrors! Would this apron wear out? Monsieur Casserole hastily summoned from conference on the weather" with another diner, brought reassurance in his smooth French way. It would not wear out. Like a board, so was it made. Always it would laBt -at least, so long as Adolphe lived. "Which, Heaven grant," added Monsieur Casserole, with an eye to business as well as to the welfare of his chef, "may be for many years yet to come." - "But," cried the little Gates girl, and the terror in her eyes was such that Dupree grasped her band under shelter of the cloth, "the apron might be lost." The expressive face of Monsieur went quickly pale. His lip twitched. He threw up his hands. "A merciful God forbid!" he cried; "for me and my vcafe it would spell ruin. Ten years I have wined and dined the best of our people here under the elevated. Ten years Adolphe has worn, that apron ; ten years no one has had anything but praise for that which I have served. Lost? Maybe. Then the end of the Cafe Cote d'Or." But the apron was not lost. ' The months slipped by.'. .... ' . . ,,. And then one night the door of the cafe opened

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THE APRON OF BERTRAND DE BOUILLON THE MASTER! FOREVER GONE:"

much as though it were admitting an artist or a poet, and a villain entered the Cote d'Or and the story. " He was a rascal, a Parisian ne'er-do-wel!; well had Monsieur Casserole known him, this Lefourbe, in the earlier days at home. Well also had he known his unsavory reputation. And for this reason Monsieur Casserole frowned when his countryman held out his hand. "I, too, have sought this land so great," the newcomer said, "to find if there be a fortune for me also waiting here. You have dene well, Antoine. Everywhere they tell me of the Cote d'Or. I have come to find what flavor it is in your food that has won the hearts and opened the purses of these busy people." . "So be it," Casserole replied; "it shall be our pleasure to serve you." He spoke as kindly as he could, but later,, when he saw the eyes of Lefourbe as they gazed on one of Adolphe's steaming 4Ishes, his heart was hard. n& he wished cne might without dish"r deny an acquaintance who had not offended except by evil report. - , Monsieur Lefourbe dined long, for even a rogue may understand an omelet, and dream a rogue's dream over an ancient wine. . When he paused by Madame's cage, with the money Monsieur Casserole would on no account accept from an old acquaintance, he lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly. "And Adolphe," he. inquired, "he is still with

you? And he still clings to his superstition oh, so foolish of the apron of Bertrand de Bouillon?" Monsieur Casserole shrugged his shoulders. "Adolphe, he is still our chef," he said. . "Ah!" said Monsieur Lefourbe softly, and he went out under the elevated. For once Madam 3 Casserole neglected to smile over her prolific chin. Three weeks later Lefourbe opened the Cafe Glacial almost directly across the narrow street from the Cote d'Or. Most brilliantly, with music that by its rhythm awakened memories of that far-off 'city, he opened to the public his Parisian cafe.' Most sumptuously was it furnished. Its lights shone dazzling! y, so did Its silver; snowy was its linen, and deferential was the host of waiters that should serve the patrons with Parisian dishes and Parisian wines. But, despite its splendor, it did not thrive. Only an occasional diner, straying by chance into the n.rrow street, ignorant of the Paradise that beckoned in ' the guise of the Cote d'Or, came to try "the dishes of the Cafe Glacial. No clan grew up that made the Glacial their shrine, their goal at evening. The waiters strayed aimlessly about, woeful that there . was none to tip. In corners they gathered in black-coated groups to discuss the baseball extra which some lone diner had left behind him, with an intangible idea of enlivening the house of desolation. That fortune Monsieur Lefourbe had crossed the sea to find, it seemed a long way off. And then one gray morning disaster knocked at

the door of Monsieur Casserole's rooms over the Cote d'Or disaster that took the material shape of a pale, gasping chef. 4 Clad only in his nightgown, and blinking like an owl caught in the sun, Monsieur Casserole faced the panting Adolphe. - "What brings you at this hour, so unheard of?" he asked, sharply. Adolphe sank" into a near-by chair and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. "Gone!" he sobbed. "Ah, Monsieur, it is quite gone!" i "What is gone?" A horrible suspicion swept through Monsieur' Casserole's mind, and the next instant saw . connrmea. : 'The apron of Bertrand de Bouillon the master.. Forever gone!" Monsieur Casserole also sank Into a chair, mud ? ..... . . . - , . . also buried his face In his hands. In one flash he - - saw his beloved Cote d'Or deserted, like a shrine" - built for' a forgotten god. He saw the lights out, ' the chairs on the tables, as for an eternal night. A. terrible nausea came over him. "Lc travail du diable." he groaned. "What is this? For ten years I "; "As a painter or a sculptor has his model began Adolphe tearfully, but Casserole cut him off. "Malpeste!. A thousand . times I have heard that. Search! Search! It is not for strong men to sit weeping." "All the night I have search', Adolphe cried. "On the fire escape outside our flat Nanette the wife

hangs the apron of the muter each evening to dry. when she has washed from it the stains of the day's work. There last night she placed it. Again, she come for it. Morbleu! It is gone! The apron of Bertrand de Bouillon, without which " Monsieur Casserole stood up and groped b'.'xdi tor his clothes. "The Cote d'Or must go on without it," he sail firmly, though his lip twitched. "Nom d'un nom, how?" shrieked Adolphe. "Without it! Tonnerre de Brest! As well might the world go on without the sun: The apron of the master, the inspiration for my bouillabaisse, my omelets, my filets. Without it! Of all ideas the most impossible!" "The Cote d'Or' goes On without it." repeated Monsieur Casserole, with added firmness. And it did. but, oh, how dolefully! When the first regular patron tasted his filet that night, he looked up quickly as though some one had dealt him a blow. Hurriedly he summoned Monsieur Casserole, who came, hollow cheeked, wild eyed, as a man sick of a fever. "What is this?" cried the patron, as though he believed himself the victim of a bad dream. "Soggy with grease! Cold! Tough as the dish for a hod carrier! Never in the days I have eaten here" "Ah, Monsieur, spare me!" cried Casserole. "Our chef, he is ill. So, most poorly does he cook today. Monsieur is at liberty to dine elsewhere until the chef recovers." "Never!" cried the diner. It has been mentioned that the Cote d'Or was with some a reltgion. "Never! The wine ia atill the best in the world. I will dine here, and on wine, waiting the recovery of the poor chef." So spoke the other regular patrons, among them the five who alone knew of tbe apron of inspiration, and who alone heard the story of its loss. Ah, it was a noble martyrdom, was that of the Cote d'Or's faithful! t But not as martyrs did all who had been accustomed to seek this lost Paris shine. There were . many who came there only to eat not to dream themselves back across the sea in the gay city, not to fix In their minds the name Cote d'Or inseparably with the hour of dining. These, when the blow fell, but sighed and went away. They went away, and mon Dieu! did not Monsieur Casserole, standing sadly in he front of his once crowded but now nearly emptied cafe, see whither they went? The doors of the Cafe Glacial swung often and merrily, the place buzzed with trade, the waiters . smiled at thought of the last liberal tip as they hurried about among the crowded tables. Monsieur Lefourbe, glancing out occasionally toward the now cheerless Cafe Cote d'Or, shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

, ' Three weeks of sorrow and pathetic martyrdom dragged slowly by. One night the five Dupree and the Gates girl. Masters the medical and Hargrave the hack, and Betty Martin gathered at the Cote d'Or in a solemn conclave and discussed the marvelous apron of Bertrand de Bouillon, and Us mysterious disappearance. "Ah, if only Adolphe had never found it in his head this idea so foolish of the apron! Me, I cannot understand." Masters the medical smiled. "The artistic temperament," he said, and glanced at pupree, who painted, and the others, who wrote. "It is not for you and me to try to understand that, Monsieur. Now, medically, I could very easily explain this freak of Adolphe's. It is a very common form of monomania. I might give you the scientific name for it. It is known as " "Not much," broke in Hargrave. "You don't throw anything like that at a man who is down, at least not while I am around. By the way. Casserole, I have been wondering is there nowhere we could obtain an apron like this Bertrand de Bouillon thing? Minus the inspiration the master Influence, you know but not so minus that Adolphe would get wise." "Ah! to fool Adolphe on this apron surely yon propose it jokingly," sighed Monsieur Casserole. "The apron of his master by a mere touch, by the way his heart made music or was sad when he put it on, he would know. Besides." he. added more practically, ."not outside of Paris ten years - ago could an apron made as this, with such buckles, be obtained. I have I have tried. Non, the Cote ' ' d'Or is a thing of the past." Dupree suddenly got ' up from his chair and sent a waiter for a cab. The others looked after him wonderingly. "Back in a minute," he cried from the door; "as you love me, wait for me." And he rushed Out. : . Still wondering, they waited, almost In silence, sipping the wine that was the one remaining badgj cf the cafe's erstwhile glory. In twenty minutes Dupree was back carrying a bundle. He opened It, and lo "The apron of Bertrand de Bouillon." Monsieur Casserole fairly screamed. "Not exactly," said Dupree. "No, only the apron of a poor art student in the days when he dined at the cafe where Bertrand ruled supreme. Ten years ago. at a little shep in the Quarter, I bought this apron to protect my only suit of clothes from the flying paint and now I bless the poverty that . made it necessary. For behold, I have ushered In sunshine; I have brought again to the face of lladame Casserole that long absent smile. If any gentleman will kindly pass me two eggs and a rabbit. I will endeavor " "Non, non," broke in Casserole, "it Is wild. It is impossible." But his eyes shone with a light that hd been a stranger to them for weeks. 'To deceive Adolphe ah, that is too much! We can not do it." "Pish, tush!" said Masters. "Adolphe is only the victim of a mental hallucination. Tell hint this is the apron of the mighty Bertie Bouillon, and his omelets will again taste like advance agents of heaven. But how shall we slip this long-lost piece of dry goods back to hira?" Dupree's plan prevailed. A small boy was brought in from the street, taught his story, and , with tbe bogus apron pushed out Into the marTelous kitchen where Adolphe. forlorn, dreary. struggled with the dishes it had once been the joy of his life to prepare. One look he cot at the 3 apron, and he pounced upon It in a frenzy of delight. He hugged it to his bosom; he smoothed vi- t.TJ ZT kPI2 V ecstasy or, his happiness. Then he shouted for MoMicur Casserole, waiting tremblingly within calL ' "It is back," he cried, "mon cher tabller. lb is back. So long, so long without it, and ah. the dreary omelets I have prepared alone! As the painter or the sculptor "Oui. Yes, verily, it Is the apron. said Monsieur Casserole. "Ah. Adolphe. never did I expect to live for this happiness! Put It oa. Adolphe. Put it on." "Oui! OuL Never again Is it to leave me." Adolphe struggled wildly with the buckles. "Never! With it I sleep. Oui. it is on. The orders! Now let mo hear the orders" - . They came. Escargots a la Casserole. Salaifis. Omelet souffle. And the hand of the master was at work again! Ah, what Wishes did Adolphe not

send out by the smiling waiters of the Cote d'Or that night! Madame Casserole lured back the long absent smile to Its place above the encored chin: Monsieur Casserole again hovered over his guests with the hope that all was well, this time certain of his replies Dupree took one mouthful of an omelet, and felt it melting into a liquid delight. His face grew suddenly sad. Margaret Gates, happy again over ber beloved escargots. always quick to catch his moods saw 1L "What is it. Billy?" she asked. "Nothing." he answered, with a sigh. "I was just thinking When. oh. when are you going to surrender? Or must I give up both you and my Art?" The little Gates girl looked at htm. a great tenderness In her eyes. "If you wish," she whispered, "a week from today I will marry you." Ah! there was joy in the Cafe Cote d'Or the night the apron of Bertrand de Bouillon came back, and

on the nights that followed. Word soon spread among the old patrons that the odd indisposition of Adolphe the fereat chef was at an end. and they flocked back in droves, crowding the tables and waiting by the cage of Madame for seats. Across the street, in the Cafe Glacial, the lights again shone on unused silver and vacant chairs. Monsieur Lefourbe. gazing out at the Cote d'Or. -cursed like one of the villains in the shows for which Dupree painted the scenery. The little Gates girl and the artist were married on the day she had set. and that atstat at the) Cote d'Or tbe largest table was reserved for their wedding supper, to which only Masters, Hargrave and Betty Martin-were Invited. At length the other diners ended their dreams and paid their bills, and only the five remained. Madame Casserole came out of her ease and . waddled toward them, in all the glory of her smile. Monsieur closed the door on the last Jovial guest, and also came toward them smiling. Never. It seemed, had there .been a happier moment In the Cafe Cote d'Or. And then a terrible thing happened. The door opened and he came in, that rogue Lefourbe, unsavory keeper of an impossible cafe. Under his arm he carried something of cloth. Unseeing he passed the diners and their hosts, and. pushing open the swinging doors, walked straight into the kingdom of Adolphe. With one accord Monsieur and Madame, terror on their faces, followed. Dupree motioned to the crowd, and. with him leading, the fire swept past the barrier into that sacred, that marvelous kitchen. Lefourbe was holding toward Adolpbe an aproa. and the latter stood as a man in a dream listening, to the rascal's words. "One night, as I wandered in a side street, the wlnd swept this in my path." Lefourbe lied blithely. "I picked It up. Then I thought It only an apron. But today did I learn that it is the apron of the great Bertrand de Bouillon. But today did the name of the owner reach me. Me, I am very sorryI hastened here with it. Ah. that I have caused -no inconvenience!" . He gazed about him sneeringly. "Not for worlds would I have caused inconvenl- -ence." ' Adolphe's face was not pleasant to look upon. He took In his hand the restored apron of the master." and turned on Monsieur Casserole. . , "This, what is it that It means?" he screamed. Terror was written in every line of Casserole's ' face. Lefourbe laughed to see it. "Forgive me, Adolphe," cried the proprietor ot the Code d'Or, piteously; "for the good of our cafe I did it. For the good of all of us. Morbleu! I must do it, or " "For a week,' roared Adolphe, and his face was terrible to see. "without the aproa of Bertrand de Bouillon I have cooked, and that which I have choked has been such as might have won the praise of the master himself. Without the Inspiration of his gift alone, not gaining hourly from his beloved apron the strength to cook for his glory and that of France. This I have done?" Lefourbe spoke. "So, Adolphe, yon have done. . Without the apron of inspiration. Non. with an apron, oh, so base, forced on yon by enemies. As the painter or the sculptor " "Malpeste! So be it!" cried Adolphe. The door of the great stove was open; within the red coals glowed savagely. Before anyone had grasped his purpose, had dreamed of an enormity so great, Adolphe had thrown into the fire the gift of the master, Bertrand de Bouillon. The flames caught it gleefully, as though they had long waited such food from the hand of such a chef. They swiried about it madly. In a second the apron of genius was but a mass of glowing ashes. "Mon Dieu! what is this yon have dona?" shrieked Monsieur Casserole. "You have ruined us all. you fool! Where is my cafe now? In a second you have made it ashes. For ten years I have served here the best of our people. In a second! Gone! 'Sangbleu!" ' He fell to a stool and covered his face with hut hands. Vainly he sought to shut out that horrible picture oi the end of his glory. He knew now that his final week of success had been given him only in mockery. In the doorway stood Madame Casserole, tears streaming down the fat cheeks tho smile had been wont to adorn. "Ruined us!" sobbed Monsieur. "For ten years the Cafe Cote d'Or " He paused, for he had seen the terrible look 04 the face of Adolphe. "Eggs!" screamed the once might chef, n An assistant brought them. ' "The skillet!" It also was forthcoming. "Batter!" Monsieur Casserole himself tremblingly put ft tSJ Adolphe's hands. Then they stood back, scarcely daring to breathe, . wsiting with open mouths snd swiftly beating! hearts the making of that omelet. Never before) was an omelet prepared by a. sterner chef, or for a greater stake. And 'now it lay, steaming, on a plate. Foamy and soft it looked but. ah. could it be so, withj the apron of the great Bertrand "Taste!" roared Adolphe. in an awfal voice, pointing his monster fork at little Mrs. Dupree. They pushed her forward. She had been the one selected for tbe ordeal why, no one coakZ say. but it. was for her to carry it throagn. , Tremblingly she inserted a fork into tho hot mass. Tremblingly she raised, a morsel to her lips. It disappeared. Monsieur Casserole grasp ed the edge of the table till bis hands went white. Madame leaned forward fatly, la Imminent daagcsT of tipping. The taste?" Adolphe's Toice was stfH terrtUs ' to hear. The little bride closed her "Of heaven." she whispered. "God be praised!" cried Monstear "De Bouillon! Bah!" blasphemed Adolphe. "Le Diable!" muttered Lefovrbe. And Madame Cass role was smiling throngs tears. ' ' ' Thus was the bugbear of tho apron of Bertrand de Bonulom forever banished from tho Cafe Cots d'Or. v

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