“If you’ve a hearty appetite,” Albert said, “may I suggest the beefsteak for two?”
“No ordinary beefsteak, this one,” Alison said. “It’s the Chateaubriand, a kernel of meat cut from the very heart of the filet.”
“Or the Rouen duck, perhaps,” Albert said.
“For that matter, the sole — with any of the sauces — is truly divine.”
“I think I might go for that, in fact,” Albert said. “With the sauce à l’Orly. Ladies, might you care for some soup to start? I shouldn’t recommend what the French consider to be oysters, although I’m told the marennes vertes are at least edible.”
“But undoubtedly out of season,” Alison said.
“Undoubtedly,” Albert said. “Ladies? Some bisque? The consommé de volaille? Or would you prefer the escargots?”
“What’s that?” Felicity asked.
“Snails,” Alison said.
“Oh, my goodness!” Felicity said.
The maitre d’hotel advised them that the specialité tonight was matelotte d’anguilles, which Felicity learned — to her greater horror — was something like stewed eels. He was recommending the bouillabaisse as well, when Albert interrupted (rudely, Lizzie thought) to say, “Not a’tall, not a’tall! It isn’t the genuine article, Felicity. The proper fish elements are wanting because they can’t bear transportation from the seaside.”
“If mademoiselle will be journeying to Marseilles,” the maitre d’hôtel said graciously, “she would indeed be well advised to wait. Shall I give you several more moments to decide? Please do not feel at all hurried.”
With the man still within earshot, Albert said, “The French claim to have artesian wells here in Paris, which are said to be quite safe. But in general the water has a bad name, and you had best drink the St. Galmier.”
“Is that a wine?” Felicity asked.
“No indeed, my dear,” Albert said, laughing. “It is, in fact, mineral water. But I shall be ordering wine, of course. Let me do that now,” he said, “so we’ll have a bottle on hand while we order.” He looked around the room, snapped his fingers, called “Garçon!” and looked pleased when a man across the room snapped to attention and came running to the table, “la carle des vins, s’il vous plait,” he said, and Lizzie detected at once that his French was nowhere near as good as Alison’s, sounding more, in fact, like Felicity’s absurd attempts when they’d entered their hotel room that afternoon. She was surprised, nonetheless, when Alison somewhat sharply said, “The wine butler is addressed as sommelier, Albert, not garçon. He’s inferior to the waiter in the hierarchy of table service, and should never be elevated to the level of garçon.”
“I shall try to remember that... madame,” Albert said drily. “Now then, ladies, what do you think might suit your fancy?”
He seemed intent on annoying Alison all through dinner, insisting on talking first — though this was prompted by Felicity’s questions — about the notorious Jack the Ripper, who only two years earlier had terrorized the prostitutes near the Whitechapel district of London’s East End, dispatching seven of them to their reward and allegedly mailing to the police half a kidney removed from one of his victims (this while Felicity was slicing her Chateaubriand), and next discussing at length the various diversions that had been available to a London gentleman before the new laws — he seemed to blame these on Victoria’s late prince consort, whom he called the Teutonic Prince — made them illegal. Among these (and he described with great relish the many he had seen during his boyhood and, in fact, till the time he was twenty) were the public hangings at Newgate—
“Oh, my goodness!” Felicity said.
— abolished in 1868, and two pastimes that were enjoying a heyday before he was born, but which his father had described in detail and which he himself wished were still permitted. These, he explained, were cockfighting and ratting. The ratting had apparently taken place in a gaslit room, usually a cellar someplace, where gentlemen would stand about a pit in which a dog attempted to kill as many rats as he could within a given period of time, the men wagering on his speed and efficiency. At this point Felicity put her napkin to her mouth and asked where she might find the ladies’ lounge. Albert rose at once, solicitously put his arm about her waist and said he would lead her there at once.
“He will behave like a swine at times,” Alison said, smiling thinly.
“He’s being perfectly charming,” Lizzie said politely.
“Is he then? An odd notion of charm, you Americans must have.”
“We’re enjoying ourselves so much,” Lizzie said. “Truly. And I must thank you again for putting Geoffrey at our disposal in London — which reminds me. He was absolutely firm about paying for everything — but everything — whenever we were with him, which was virtually all of the time. I objected, of course, but he’d hear none of it, and I didn’t think it my place to argue violently with a man. But, Alison, we’re both women...”
“We are indeed,” Alison said.
“... and I feel I can be more forthright with you than I was with him. I absolutely insist, if we are to spend any time at all together in Paris, that we be allowed to pay our own...”
“Nonsense,” Allison said. “Albert has more money than he knows what to do with, millions to squander on smaller pleasures than these, believe me. Besides, he rather enjoys patting and pinching Felicity’s bottom, have you noticed?”
Lizzie hadn’t noticed. She cleared her throat and looked about at the other diners, hoping Alison had not been overheard. In an attempt to change the subject and never once suspecting what lay in wait, she asked, “Now what’s this about a cat that sank? Geoffrey seemed certain I’d be shocked. Is it some sport similar to ratting? Are cats drowned in some horrible manner? I did, by the way, see men selling cat meat on the streets of London. Do the English really eat cat meat?”
“Pussy on a stick,” Alison said, nodding. “To suit the more discerning palate.”
“And a cat that sank? What’s that?”
“A quatre à cinq, Lizzie,” Alison said. “It’s French. Quatre à cinq. It means a ‘four-to-five’.”
“And what’s a four-to-five?”
“The hour when many petites femmes — perhaps that’s too strong — the hour when many Parisian ladies manage to slip away from their coachmen to sidle up the back stairs. L’heure de femme, as it’s called.”
“I don’t understand,” Lizzie said.
“An hour to be with their lovers,” Alison said.
“Oh,” Lizzie said.
“Between four and five,” Alison said.