Mme Proust and the Kosher Kitchen by Kate Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

we met him at Trouville last year, and after all, his father is a doctor too.
    Marcel is to wear his dinner jacket—he hid it under his greatcoat and several scarves in the cab on the way up—and was explaining to me how difficult it is to stand perfectly still. About every twenty minutes or so he is allowed a little break, but M. Blanche marks on the studio floor in chalk the outline of his feet so that he can take up the exact same pose when they begin again. Marcel says he chews on the end of his brush and sighs a lot as he paints, and absolutely forbids the boy to talk. I worry that Marcel is not taking his courses at the Sorbonne seriously enough, but at least the sessions with M. Blanche will be a distraction from his silly pursuit of Mme de Chevigné. I believe he is waiting in the street outside her house to catch a glimpse of her, because he is up and out suspiciously early in the morning these days.
P ARIS . T UESDAY , N OVEMBER 22, 1892.
    Eh bien
. We are to have a visit from the famous Mr. Wilde. Marcel met him at one of his soirées and was enchanted. He says he is so witty that he makes Mme Straus herself seem dull, and he wears the most colourful waistcoats. Marcel has invited him here for dinner Thursday, before his Paris tour comes to a close and he must return to England. The boy insists that his father and I should be present, saying that even though Mr. Wilde speaks beautiful French, my English must be ready in the wings just in case the gentleman should prefer that language. Reading is one thing, and talking quite another, but I imagine I can muster enough to show Mr. Wilde we French are not without sympathy for the English people and the English language. (Although, I have just recalled that he is, in fact, Irish. Does it make a difference? I wonder.)
P ARIS . W EDNESDAY , N OVEMBER , 23, 1892.
    Great preparations for tomorrow. Have decided on the
blanquette
.
P ARIS . F RIDAY , N OVEMBER 25, 1892.
    We have received a visit from the great Mr. Wilde and I did not even lay eyes on the man! He was to dine yesterday evening. Adrien made great efforts to come home from the hospital in lots of time, despite an afternoon meeting of the board, and he and I were all ready in the salon at seven o’clock. Marcel was late—he is getting impossible on that score; I wonder that heever gets to his parties before they are over—and had yet to arrive when the bell rang and Jean went to open the door. No one ever appeared in the salon, but Jean told me later than Mr. Wilde peeped into the room, and then asked for the facilities. Marcel arrived a few moments later, there was some hurried conversation in the hall, and then Mr. Wilde disappeared again, all without even so much as a
“Mes hommages, madame.”
What extraordinary behaviour!
    Marcel was mortified, and clearly took it very personally. Apparently there was some misunderstanding about it being a dinner invitation
en famille
. Mr. Wilde had perhaps been expecting a tête-à-tête and was unprepared for a larger gathering. Not that we are so intimidating, after all. At any rate, there was a great deal of injured pride all round, and I spent the evening soothing both Marcel and Félicie (“a perfectly good
blanquette de veau
gone to waste, and all that work on the seafood sauce for the sole…”). Adrien, on the other hand, was very cheerful about the whole affair and said he was just as happy to spend the evening working on his papers. At least he tucked into Félicie’s veal with appetite, so she was somewhat assuaged, but Marcel refused to eat a thing and departed to his room in tears.
    Were it not for my great affection for Mr. Dickens, Mr. Wilde might drive me to quote Montesquieu himself: “The English are busy; they don’t have time to be polite.”
P ARIS . S UNDAY , D ECEMBER 18, 1892.
    Marcel came home from M. Blanche’s studio all breathless and excited this Saturday, not sure whether to be upset or delighted with the turn of events. Apparently,