Fitzroy Timmins, whose taste for wine is remarkable for so young a man, is a member of the committee of the “Mégathérium Club,” and the great Mirobolant, good-natured as all great men are, was only too happy to oblige him.  A young friend and protege of his, of considerable merit, M. Cavalcadour, happened to be disengaged through the lamented death of Lord Hauncher, with whom young Cavalcadour had made his debut as an artist.  He had nothing to refuse to his master, Mirobolant, and would impress himself to be useful to a gourmet so distinguished as Monsieur Timmins.  Fitz went away as pleased as Punch with this encomium of the great Mirobolant, and was one of those who voted against the decreasing of Mirobolant’s salary, when the measure was proposed by Mr. Parings, Colonel Close, and the Screw party in the committee of the club.

Faithful to the promise of his great master, the youthful Cavalcadour called in Lilliput Street the next day.  A rich crimson velvet waistcoat, with buttons of blue glass and gold, a variegated blue satin stock, over which a graceful mosaic chain hung in glittering folds, a white hat worn on one side of his long curling ringlets, redolent with the most delightful hair-oil ­one of those white hats which looks as if it had been just skinned ­and a pair of gloves not exactly of the color of beurre frais, but of beurre that has been up the chimney, with a natty cane with a gilt knob, completed the upper part at any rate, of the costume of the young fellow whom the page introduced to Mrs. Timmins.

Her mamma and she had been just having a dispute about the gooseberry-cream when Cavalcadour arrived.  His presence silenced Mrs. Gashleigh; and Rosa, in carrying on a conversation with him in the French language ­which she had acquired perfectly in an elegant finishing establishment in Kensington Square ­had a great advantage over her mother, who could only pursue the dialogue with very much difficulty, eying one or other interlocutor with an alarmed and suspicious look, and gasping out “We” whenever she thought a proper opportunity arose for the use of that affirmative.

“I have two leetl menus weez me,” said Cavalcadour to Mrs. Gashleigh.

“Minews ­yes, ­oh, indeed?” answered the lady.

“Two little cartes.”

“Oh, two carts!  Oh, we,” she said.  “Coming, I suppose?” And she looked out of the window to see if they were there.

Cavalcadour smiled.  He produced from a pocket-book a pink paper and a blue paper, on which he had written two bills of fare ­the last two which he had composed for the lamented Hauncher ­and he handed these over to Mrs. Fitzroy.

The poor little woman was dreadfully puzzled with these documents, (she has them in her possession still,) and began to read from the pink one as follows: ­

“DinerPour 16 personnes.

Potage (clair) a la Rigodon. 
Do. a la Prince de Tombuctou.

Deux Poissons.

Deux Releves.

Le Chapeau-a-trois-cornes farci a la Robespierre. 
Le Tire-botte a l’Odalisque.

Six Entrees. 
Saute de Hannetons a l’Epingliere. 
Côtelettes a la Mégathérium. 
Bourrasque de Veau a la Palsambleu. 
Laitances de Carpe en goguette a la Reine Pomare. 
Turban de Volaille a l’Archeveque de Cantorbery.”

And so on with the entremets, and hors d’oeuvres, and the rôtis, and the releves.

“Madame will see that the dinners are quite simple,” said M. Cavalcadour.

“Oh, quite!” said Rosa, dreadfully puzzled.

“Which would Madame like?”

“Which would we like, mamma?” Rosa asked; adding, as if after a little thought, “I think, sir, we should prefer the blue one.”  At which Mrs. Gashleigh nodded as knowingly as she could; though pink or blue, I defy anybody to know what these cooks mean by their jargon.

“If you please, Madame, we will go down below and examine the scene of operations,” Monsieur Cavalcadour said; and so he was marshalled down the stairs to the kitchen, which he didn’t like to name, and appeared before the cook in all his splendor.

He cast a rapid glance round the premises, and a smile of something like contempt lighted up his features.  “Will you bring pen and ink, if you please, and I will write down a few of the articles which will be necessary for us?  We shall require, if you please, eight more stew-pans, a couple of braising-pans, eight saute-pans, six bainmarie-pans, a freezing-pot with accessories, and a few more articles of which I will inscribe the names.”  And Mr. Cavalcadour did so, dashing down, with the rapidity of genius, a tremendous list of ironmongery goods, which he handed over to Mrs. Timmins.  She and her mamma were quite frightened by the awful catalogue.

“I will call three days hence and superintend the progress of matters; and we will make the stock for the soup the day before the dinner.”

“Don’t you think, sir,” here interposed Mrs. Gashleigh, “that one soup ­a fine rich mock-turtle, such as I have seen in the best houses in the West of England, and such as the late Lord Fortyskewer ­”

“You will get what is wanted for the soups, if you please,” Mr. Cavalcadour continued, not heeding this interruption, and as bold as a captain on his own quarter-deck:  “for the stock of clear soup, you will get a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham.”

“We, munseer,” said the cook, dropping a terrified curtsy:  “a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham.”

“You can’t serve a leg of veal at a party,” said Mrs. Gashleigh; “and a leg of beef is not a company dish.”

“Madame, they are to make the stock of the clear soup,” Mr. Cavalcadour said.

“What!” cried Mrs. Gashleigh; and the cook repeated his former expression.

“Never, whilst I am in this house,” cried out Mrs. Gashleigh, indignantly; “never in a Christian English household; never shall such sinful waste be permitted by me.  If you wish me to dine, Rosa, you must get a dinner less expensive.  The Right Honorable Lord Fortyskewer could dine, sir, without these wicked luxuries, and I presume my daughter’s guests can.”

“Madame is perfectly at liberty to decide,” said M. Cavalcadour.  “I came to oblige Madame and my good friend Mirobolant, not myself.”

“Thank you, sir, I think it will be too expensive,” Rosa stammered in a great flutter; “but I am very much obliged to you.”

“Il n’y a point d’obligation, Madame,” said Monsieur Alcide Camille Cavalcadour in his most superb manner; and, making a splendid bow to the lady of the house, was respectfully conducted to the upper regions by little Buttons, leaving Rosa frightened, the cook amazed and silent, and Mrs. Gashleigh boiling with indignation against the dresser.

Up to that moment, Mrs. Blowser, the cook, who had come out of Devonshire with Mrs. Gashleigh (of course that lady garrisoned her daughter’s house with servants, and expected them to give her information of everything which took place there) up to that moment, I say, the cook had been quite contented with that subterraneous station which she occupied in life, and had a pride in keeping her kitchen neat, bright, and clean.  It was, in her opinion, the comfortablest room in the house (we all thought so when we came down of a night to smoke there), and the handsomest kitchen in Lilliput Street.

But after the visit of Cavalcadour, the cook became quite discontented and uneasy in her mind.  She talked in a melancholy manner over the area-railings to the cooks at twenty-three and twenty-five.  She stepped over the way, and conferred with the cook there.  She made inquiries at the baker’s and at other places about the kitchens in the great houses in Brobdingnag Gardens, and how many spits, bangmarry-pans, and stoo-pans they had.  She thought she could not do with an occasional help, but must have a kitchen-maid.  And she was often discovered by a gentleman of the police force, who was, I believe, her cousin, and occasionally visited her when Mrs. Gashleigh was not in the house or spying it: ­she was discovered seated with Mrs. Rundell in her lap, its leaves bespattered with her tears.  “My pease be gone, Pelisse,” she said, “zins I zaw that ther Franchman!” And it was all the faithful fellow could do to console her.

“ ­ the dinner!” said Timmins, in a rage at last.  “Having it cooked in the house is out of the question.  The bother of it, and the row your mother makes, are enough to drive one mad.  It won’t happen again, I can promise you, Rosa.  Order it at Fubsby’s, at once.  You can have everything from Fubsby’s ­from footmen to saltspoons.  Let’s go and order it at Fubsby’s.”

“Darling, if you don’t mind the expense, and it will be any relief to you, let us do as you wish,” Rosa said; and she put on her bonnet, and they went off to the grand cook and confectioner of the Brobdingnag quarter.