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1 "And tell him we shall all be good
friends again," continued Madame
Napoleon, or, rather, Mademoiselle
Dubois, as she must still continue to
Well, I accepted the commission. I
felt sorry for Monsieru Napoleon and
the disappointed kings, and I thought
that to forego my own chances of
tasting the omelette Tartarin at the
St Charles was an act of distinct
self-abnegnation. The first evening
I had to spare after my arrival in New
York I. went to the St. Charles and
ordered an omelette Tartarin.
It was no more the omelette Tar
tarin of the Cafe Napoleon than the
present omelette of the Cafe Napo
leon was like the wonderful creations
, of yesteryear. I could not under
' stand it
"Is not Monsier, Alphonse your
chef?" I inquired of the headwaiter.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Bine
chef, too, he's supposed to be. He's
got a gold medal from the late king
of Belgium for his omelette Tartarin.
Didn't you find it distinguished, sir?"
"No!" I shouted. "Fve eaten bad
omelettes in most- countries of th'e
world, but for sheer unsavoriness I've
never tasted one as bad as the one
I've had here tonight. Bring your
chef to me at once."
The waiter looked as if he was go
ing to burst into tears, but apparently
he thought better of it, and, being Im
pressed by my manner, he summoned
the chef, who presently made his ap
pearance. He was a stout, black
bearded brigand, with a furtive look
in his eye that I hardly liked.
"What's this about my omelette?"
he began truculently.
"Monsier Alphonse;" I said, "you
are a fake and a fraud. Either you
are not the original Monsier Al
phonse, or else you have lost your
mind, or 'else your skill has deserted
you, or else the Great American Hen
has been smitten with the craze for
turning out an inferior product
Come, out with your confession.
.What's the matter?"
"Sacre, monsier, do you asperse,
my omelette?" he began.
"Your omelette Is as degenerate as
yourself," I answered. "It may de
ceive the gay millionaires of the
Great White Way, but it doesn't go
down I mean this literally with
one who has enjoyed the correct arti
cle at the Cafe Napoleon. Now, lis
ten, Alphonse! Monsier Napoleon
wants you to return. He is pining for
"Ah, mon Dieu, the scoundrel stole
my sweetheart," said H& chef.' "Since
then I have vowed never, never to
cook the correct omelette Tar
"Alphonse," I answered, "you are
a married man!"
"Monsieur!" he gasped. "How do
"By the furtive look in your eye," I
answered. "By the come-home-early
atmosphere that you are shedding
around this former home of bright
bachelordom. Come, Alphonse, out
"Monsieur, I am vmarried three
months," he answered. "I adore, I
"Never mind that! How about
Mademoiselle Dubois, now Madame
"Monsier, a passing infatuation,
truly. I never cared for her. It was
merely that "
"Then you will take your wife to
Paris and restore the Cafe Napoleon
to its former splendor," I told him.
"Come! They, will embrace you.
They will double your salary. They
will love you as the long-lost prodi
gal." "Alas, monsier, it is impossible,"
he answered, sadly.
"Alphonse," I said, "there is some
mystery about that omelette Tar
"Monsieur, I will confess," he
blurted out. "It was not I who made
it It was Mademoiselle Dubois."
"What!" I exclaimed.
"Truly, monsieur. And I had to
pretend to love her, that she should
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