"Yes,
monsieur, quite a little one." "Is it a young pig?" pursued Labby, who
was still dubious. The waiter hesitated, and at last replied, "Well, I
cannot be sure, monsieur, if it is quite young." "But it must be young if
it is little, as you say. Come, what is it, tell me?" "Monsieur, it is a
guinea-pig!" Labby bounded from his chair, took his hat, and fled. He did
not feel equal to guinea-pig, although he was very hungry.
Perhaps, however, Labouchere's best story of those days was that of the
old couple who, all other resources failing them, were at last compelled
to sacrifice their little pet dog. It came up to table nicely roasted, and
they both looked at it for a moment with a sigh. Then Monsieur summoned up
his courage and helped Madame to the tender viand. She heaved another
sigh, but, making a virtue of necessity, began to eat, and whilst she was
doing so she every now and then deposited a little bone on the edge of her
plate. There was quite a collection of little bones there by the time she
had finished, and as she leant back in her chair and contemplated them she
suddenly exclaimed: "Poor little Toto! If he had only been alive what a
fine treat he would have had!"
To return, however, to my father and myself, I must mention that there was
a little English tavern and eating-house in the Rue de Miromesnil, kept by
a man named Lark, with whom I had some acquaintance.
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