It is needless to say that all the prescriptions of the cook were followed literally by the canon, whose appetite, now a prodigious thing, seemed to increase in proportion as it was fed; finally, having exhausted his glass to the last drop, Dom Diégo, his ears scarlet, his eyes softly closed, and his cheeks flushed, commenced to feel the tepid moisture and light torpor of a happy and easy digestion; then, sinking into his armchair with a delicious languor, he said to his majordomo:
"If I were not conscious of a tiger's hunger, which threatens explosion too soon, I would believe myself in Paradise. So, Pablo, go at once for this great man of the kitchen, this veritable magician; tell him to come and enjoy his work; tell him to come and judge of the ineffable beatitude in which he has plunged me, and above all, Pablo, tell him that if I do not go myself to testify my admiration, my gratitude, it is because--"
The canon was interrupted by the sight of the culinary artist, who suddenly entered the room, and stood face to face with Diégo, staring at him with a strange expression of countenance.
At the sight of the cook, who wore, according to the habit of his profession, a white vest and a cotton cap,--the ancient and highly classic schools of Laguipierre, Morel, and Carême remained faithful to the cotton cap, the young romantic school adopting the toque of white muslin,--Canon Dom Diégo rose painfully from his armchair, made two steps toward the culinary artist, with his hands extended, and cried, in a voice full of emotion:
"Welcome, my saviour, my friend, my dear friend! Yes, I am proud to give you this title; you have deserved it, because I owe you my appetite, and appetite is happiness,--it is life!"
The cook did not appear extremely grateful for the friendly title with which the canon had honoured him; he remained silent, his arms crossed on his breast, and his gaze fixed on Dom Diégo, but the latter, in the fiery ardour of gastronomic gratitude, did not observe the sardonic smile,--we would almost say Satanic smile,--which played upon the lips of the great man of the kitchen, and so continued the expression of his gratitude:
"My friend," pursued the canon, "from this day you are mine; your conditions will be mine. I am rich; good cheer is my only passion, and for you I will not be a master, but an admirer. Never, my friend, never, have you been better appreciated. You have told me yourself you work only for art, and you prove it, for I declare openly you are the greatest master cook of the world. The miracle that you have wrought to-day, not only in restoring my appetite, but in increasing it as I tasted your masterpieces (even at this hour I feel able to enjoy another breakfast), this miracle, I say, places you outside of the line of ordinary cooks. We will never part, my dear friend; all that you ask I will grant; you can take other assistants, other subalterns, if you desire to do so. I wish to spare you all fatigue; your health is too precious to me to permit you to compromise it, for henceforth,--I feel it there," and Dom Diégo put his fat hand on his stomach,--"henceforth, I shall not know how to live without you, and--"