'Here is Borel, the second cook, at the door.
How many pullets to-day, Borel ?' 'Ah, Monsieur de Meneval, it is heartrending,' cried the cook.

'Behold them!' and, drawing back the flap of the entrance, he showed us seven dishes, each of them containing a cold fowl.

'The eighth is now on the fire and done to a turn, but I hear that His Majesty has started for the review, so we must put on a ninth.' 'That is how it is managed,' said my companion, as we turned from the tent.

'I have known twenty-three fowls got ready for him before he asked for his meal.

That day he called for his dinner at eleven at night.