Calves' liver and bacon, with parsley sauce,
could hardly have figured more ignominiously in the
evening's entertainment. And while the master of culinary
art leaned back against the sheltering pillar, choking with
a horrible brain-searing rage that could find no outlet for
its agony, the orchestra leader was bowing his
acknowledgments of the hand-clappings that rose in a storm
around him. Turning to his colleagues he nodded the signal
for an encore. But before the violin had been lifted anew
into position there came from the shadow of the pillar an
explosive negative.
`` `Noh! Noh! You do not play thot again!'
``The musician turned in furious astonishment. Had he
taken warning from the look in the other man's eyes he might
have acted differently. But the admiring plaudits were
ringing in his ears, and he snarled out sharply, `That is
for me to decide.'
`` `Noh! You play thot never again,' shouted the chef, and
the next moment he had flung himself violently upon the
loathed being who had supplanted him in the world's esteem.
A large metal tureen, filled to the brim with steaming soup,
had just been placed on a side table in readiness for a late
party of diners; before the waiting staff or the guests had
time to realize what was happening, Aristide had dragged his
struggling victim up to the table and plunged his head deep
down into the almost boiling contents of the tureen.
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