back once more, such a picture as I
have presented is but a weak and imperfect sketch of the Hotel de France
in Brussels--at least, of what I once remember it.

Poor Biennais, he was an _artiste!_ He commenced his career under
Chicaud, and rose to the dignity of _rotisseur_ under Napoleon. With
what enthusiasm he used to speak of his successes during the Empire,
when Bonaparte gave him carte-blanche to compose a dinner for a 'party
of kings!' Napoleon himself was but an inferior gastronome. With him,
the great requisite was to serve anywhere and at any moment; and
though the bill of fare was a modest one, it was sometimes a matter of
difficulty to prepare it in the depths of the Black Forest or on the
sandy plains of Prussia, amid the mud-covered fields of Poland or the
snows of Muscovy. A poulet, a cutlet, and a cup of coffee was the whole
affair; but it should be ready as if by magic. Among his followers were
several distinguished gourmets. Cambaceres was well known; Murat also,
and Decres, the Minister of Marine, kept admirable tables. Of these,
Biennais spoke with ecstasy; he remembered their various tastes, and
would ever remark, when placing some masterpiece of skill before you,
how the King of Naples loved or the arch-chancellor praised it. To him
the overthrow of the empire was but the downfall of the cuisine; and he
saw nothing more affecting in the last days of Fontainebleau than that
the Emperor had left untouched a _fondue_ he had always eaten of with
delight. 'After that,' said Biennais, 'I saw the game was up.' With the
Hundred Days he was 'restored,' like his master; but, alas! the empire
of casseroles was departed; the thunder of the cannon foundries, and the
roar of the shot furnaces were more congenial sounds than the simmering
of sauces and the gentle murmur of a stew-pan. No wonder, thought he,
there should come a Waterloo, when the spirit of the nation had thus
degenerated. Napoleon spent his last days in exile; Biennais took
his departure for Belgium. The park was his Longwood; and, indeed,
he himself saw invariable points of resemblance in the two destinies.
Happily for those who frequented the Hotel de France, he did not occupy
his remaining years in dictating his memoirs to some Las Casas of the
kitchen, but persevered to the last in the practice of his great art,
and died, so to speak, ladle in hand.

To me the Hotel de France has many charms. I remember it, I shall not
say how many years--it