“The plot then, what of that?” Etienne cried. “Who was involved?”
Mercedes shook her head. “I begin now to believe that it was only a figment, a tissue of lies,” she said. “Because,” she lowered her eyes, and her whole delightful body flushed a fragile pink, “a week ago he sent me a sonnet.”
“By wigwag?”
She nodded.
“The keys, then,” he demanded gently, “what of the keys?”
“That was before,” she murmured. “He said that he must have some means of gaining entrance to the house, to – these were his words – ‘Nip the fiendish designs upon de Rocoque in the bud, just as they are about to flower.’ ”
Etienne sighed. “My child, my sumptuous child,” he patted her hand, “you have been taken in.”
“I know it now!” She leaped to her feet and danced a little dance. “I know it now, my own true love, my king, my benefactor. But I did it all for you! Can you forgive?”
“The keys,” Etienne’s voice was barely audible, “he never used the keys?”
“Never.” Her innocence was a sword, a shield, a banner. “Never!”
Etienne was smiling, went on in a shaky whisper: “And the Tasting Machine. What of that?”
She stopped in mid-pirouette and gazed at him in puzzlement. “The what?”
“This varlet Vincent followed me home a little while ago. He had a machine that he said he had invented especially for me, and when I asked its price, he said – Etienne’s voice broke a touch – “its price was you.”
Her petaled face darkened; a half-hue with anger, curved to a kind of agony. She caught her breath. “The knave,” she muttered in a small spasm of loathing. “The unspeakable blackguard! What have you done with him?”
Etienne rose. “I have put him away,” he said, “in a place where he may dwell for a little while upon the bitter lees of vanity and youthful presumption. For only a little while, my sweet. Then I shall burden him with gold and jewels and send him on his way.”
“And the Machine?”
“It is an interesting novelty. At some time after nine I am expecting guests, the first in several months. It may amuse them.” He crossed to the door.
“I want to see it!” She ran to him, clapping her hands in childish joy. “I must see it!”
“Later,” he said, and he stooped to kiss her nose. “Later, my one . . .
Then he went out through the tiny foyer, closed and locked the door.
When Etienne came to the front room of his own apartment on the third floor, the day was duskening, there was the small drum of distant thunder. He turned on the lights, and saw, to his startled amazement, that Gertrude had fainted, was hanging upside down from a branch of the rubber plant. Swiftly and gently he disengaged her clenched talons and, hurrying into the bathroom, waved a phial of smelling salts beneath her beak. After a time she opened one eye.
“What is it, my saffron beauty?” he purred solicitously.
She opened her other eye and regarded him dully, expressionlessly. She said no word. He released her and she fluttered out, through the corridor and down the back stairs. Etienne frowned, shrugged, fell to dressing. As was his wont when expecting guests, he wore a belted smock, pantaloons of stiffly starched white duck, a tall and extravagantly flared chef’s cap. His chest glittered with jeweled medals – only a small part of his collection, but enough to cover an area of one square cubit.
After a last more or less resigned glance at his reflection in the mirror, he went back to the front room and, picking up the entirely quiescent Tasting Machine, carried it down to the Salle à Manger, placed it on one end of the table, and went on to the kitchen. Bubu was peeling a mangosteen; Gertrude was nowhere to be seen. Etienne peeked into an oven, uncovered a steaming pot and sniffed, gave its contents a reflective stir.
“Where is that absurd bird?” he finally demanded.
Bubu turned a fast back somersault, gestured towards the garden.
“She swooned,” Etienne continued, “swooned dead away. It’s probably the heat.”
He went then to the big slate upon which, only as a reminder, he sometimes chalked his menus, scrawled:
Anguilles au Gris, Vert, et Rouge
Anchois Robespierre
Oeufs de Rocs en Gelée
Veloute d’Eperlans Central Park
Agulhacreola au Sauce Nacre
Sylphides à la Crème de Lion Mann
Endive Belge au Goo
Grives, Becfigues, et Béguinettes
et Merles de Corse Bubu
Bubu, avidly watching, swelled with pride. Etienne must indeed be in a magnificent mood thus to honor him in naming a brand new dish. Etienne cocked his head and grinned at Bubu’s glee, scrawled on:
Hamburger 61st Street
Coots avec Leeks Navets Farcis Bleu
Ballotines de Oison Mercedes
He stopped and was thoughtful, went to an open window that gave upon the garden. The sky was writhing with thunder clouds and, by an abrupt flash of lightning, he saw Gertrude in the magnolia tree abstractedly tearing a large white blossom into bits. He whistled, but she only glanced fleetingly, fleetingly, in his direction, then lifted her head and bayed mournfully at the darkling, tumultuous sky. It was an eerie sound.
“Bright-feathered imbecile,” he muttered tenderly. “She’ll get soaking wet in another minute.”
A few drops of rain pattered on the sill. He whistled once more, crossed back to the slate, and added:
Salade de Concombres, Ambergris
et Choux Jaune
Jambon à la Prague
Sous la Cendre Teak
Fraises Réve de Bébé Blaque
Péche Attila
Bavaroise Gertrude
He was thoughtful again, crossed to the smallest of the refrigerators, and gently removed the eleven perfect daisies which would serve as an epergne. Opening the refrigerator, he thought of Vincent. It would not do to leave that brash youth too long in the Crucifreeze. Perhaps another half-hour of chilled meditation upon his sins would suffice, then Etienne would free him, pay him handsomely for the Tasting Machine, and send him packing. It was well for Vincent – he smiled wryly – that he was not a vindictive man.
There was a bowl of caviar in the small refrigerator, the luminous, absinthe-greenish kind. It had been flown from Baku the previous day. It occurred to Etienne that it might be as well to test the Machine once more before his guests arrived. He took the bowl into the dining room and placed it on the table; almost immediately the Machine began to hum, whirr softly, ever so softly. The spoon arm slowly unfolded, reached out and – snup! – engulfed a great mouthful, snatched it to the aperture, popped it in. The filament began to glow, and then, sibilantly, sensually, unmistakably, the Machine chortled with pleasure.
Etienne heaved a great and beatific snortle. It worked, and perfectly. He carried the bowl back into the kitchen and put it in the small refrigerator. The Machine’s voice followed him for a moment with thin whines of anguish. That was as well, he decided. Let it be ravenous for the feast to come.
He listened then. He could hear Bubu in the cellar – clink and stumble, rumble, plink – as he chose wines to accompany dinner; he could hear the rain outside, a tenuous shuffle of thunder, Gertrude wetly baying at the sky; he could hear the distant surf of tires on Park Avenue.