I have always doubted that story, however, and incline to the opinion that
our improvised porter had simply sold the coals and pocketed the proceeds.
One day, early in November, when our allowance of beef or mutton was
growing small by degrees and beautifully less and infrequent--horseflesh
becoming more and more _en evidence_ at the butchers' shops, [Only 1-1/2
oz. of beef or mutton was now allowed per diem, but in lieu thereof you
could obtain 1/4 lb. of horseflesh.] I had occasion to call on one of our
artists, Blanchard, who lived in the Faubourg Saint Germain. When we had
finished our business he said to me: "Ernest, it is my _fete_ day. I am
going to have a superb dinner. My brother-in-law, who is an official of
the Eastern Railway Line, is giving it in my honour. Come with me;
I invite you." We thereupon went to his brother-in-law's flat, where I was
most cordially received, and before long we sat down at table in a warm
and well-lighted dining-room, the company consisting of two ladies and
three men, myself included.
The soup, I think, had been prepared from horseflesh with the addition of
a little Liebig's extract of meat; but it was followed by a beautiful leg
of mutton, with beans a la Bretonne and--potatoes! I had not tasted a
potato for weeks past, for in vain had the ingenious Saby endeavoured to
procure some.
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