Eating in Two or Three Languages | Page 9

cold dishes. Right in the
middle of the array was one of the largest lobsters I ever saw, reposing
on a couch of water cress and seaweed, arranged upon a serviette. He
made an impressive sight as he lay there prone upon his stomach,
fidgeting his feelers in a petulant way.
We two took seats near by. At once the silent signal was given
signifying, in the cipher code, "Americans in the house!" And the
maître d'hôtel came to where he rested and, grasping him firmly just
back of the armpits, picked him up and brought him over to us and
invited us to consider his merits. When we had singly and together
declined to consider the proposition of eating him in each of the three
languages we knew--namely, English, bad French, and profane--the
master sorrowfully returned him to his bed.
Presently two other Americans entered and immediately after them a

party of English officers, and then some more Americans. Each time
the boss would gather up the lobster and personally introduce him to
the newcomers, just as he had done in our case, by poking the monster
under their noses and making him wriggle to show that he was really
alive and not operated by clockwork, and enthusiastically dilating upon
his superior attractions, which, he assured them, would be enormously
enhanced if only messieurs would agree forthwith to partake of him in
a broiled state. But there were no takers; and so back again he would go
to his place by the door, there to remain till the next prospective victim
arrived.
We fell into the habit of going to this place in the evenings in order to
enjoy repetitions of this performance while dining. The lobster became
to us as an old friend, a familiar acquaintance. We took to calling him
Jess Willard, partly on account of his reach and partly on account of his
rugged appearance, but most of all because his manager appeared to
have so much trouble in getting him matched with anybody.
[Illustration: HALF A DOZEN TIMES A NIGHT OR OFTENER HE
TRAVELLED UNDER ESCORT THROUGH THE DINING ROOM]
Half a dozen times a night, or oftener, he travelled under escort through
the dining room, always returning again to his regular station. Along
about the middle of the week he began to fail visibly. Before our eyes
we saw him fading. Either the artificial life he was leading or the strain
of being turned down so often was telling upon him. It preyed upon his
mind, as we could discern by his morose expression. It sapped his
splendid vitality as well. No longer did he expand his chest and wave
his numerous extremities about when being exhibited before the
indifferent eyes of possible investors, but remained inert, logy, gloomy,
spiritless--a melancholy spectacle indeed.
It now required artificial stimulation to induce him to display even a
temporary interest in his surroundings. With a practised finger, his
keeper would thump him on the tenderer portions of his stomach, and
then he would wake up; but it was only for a moment. He relapsed
again into his lamentable state of depression and languor. By every
outward sign here was a lobster that fain would withdraw from the

world. But we knew that for him there was no opportunity to do so; on
the hoof he represented too many precious francs to be allowed to go
into retirement.
Coming on Saturday night we realised that for our old friend the end
was nigh. His eyes were deeply set about two-thirds of the way back
toward his head and with one listless claw he picked at the serviette.
The summons was very near; the dread inevitable impended.
Sunday night he was still present, but in a greatly altered state. During
the preceding twenty-four hours his brave spirit had fled. They had
boiled him then; so now, instead of being green, he was a bright and
varnished red all over, the exact colour of Truck Six in the Paducah
Fire Department.
We felt that we who had been sympathisers at the bedside during some
of his farewell moments owed it to his memory to assist in the last sad
rites. At a perfectly fabulous price we bought the departed and
undertook to give him what might be called a personal interment; but
he was a disappointment. He should have been allowed to take the veil
before misanthropy had entirely undermined his health and destroyed
his better nature, and made him, as it were, morbid. Like Harry Leon
Wilson's immortal Cousin Egbert, he could be pushed just so far, and
no farther.
Before I left Paris the city was put upon bread cards. The country at
large was supposed to be on bread rations too; but in most of the
smaller towns I