Even Mr. Darcy looked a little overwhelmed. “I have the French, but not the patience, for a menu of this variety. We have a choice of soups, fricassees, fricandeaus, ragoûts, tame and wild fowl, omelettes, oysters, fish, roast beef and mutton, and frogs’ thighs, and this on the first page. I believe we will eat much sooner if we consult the maître d’hôtel for assistance.” In brisk and efficient French, Mr. Darcy established with the waiter those dishes that came most highly recommended, and ordered a moderate selection of foods and wine for the family. Despite the number of large parties taking their meal in the restaurant, the Darcy’s table was almost immediately covered with a vast array of dishes, all of which were as delightful as the waiter had promised. Georgiana, quietly shewing that she had actually read the menu, assisted her brother and sister by explaining the contents and the method of preparation for each dish chosen. The Darcys retained enough of their national custom to refuse the usual serving of vegetables that invariably followed the bonne bouche, being both full and agreeing that the order of the service was very odd, indeed. When they had finished their coffee and were to quit the Palais Royal, Mr. Darcy stopt to give payment to the limonadier who was seated in state, elevated in an enclosure surrounded by exotic flowers and innumerable dishes, all filled with fruit and preserves.

“This seems more like tribute than a payment for dinner,” laughed Elizabeth.

“Well, it is lovely, and we certainly could not have passed out without noticing where the establishment wishes us to pay,” replied Georgiana.

Mr. Darcy closed the discussion of the great dais with a loud whisper, “I wonder what the King and Queen must do to compete with the throne of this cashier. We must all look trés obéissante and perhaps we shall be permitted to pass.”

In their walk back to the hôtel, all was well until Darcy was forced into the street by a speeding hack-chaise as they passed into La Rue de Richelieu, obliging a detour to the décrotteur—a most peculiar establishment where all classes of Parisian society could be seen with regularity getting their shoes cleaned—and Mr. Darcy’s shoes, as well as his humour, were restored. Mr. Darcy made a trenchant comment to the effect that the streets were intentionally left unmended and unclean in order to preserve such an estimable occupation. The rest of the day passed without incident, and fatigued, but pleased, with Paris and their diversions of the day, the party returned to their lodgings for tea and to discuss their plans before retiring.

Elizabeth wrote to her father on the morrow, aware that almost a month had passed since they had parted,

Easter-day
Paris, France

DEAREST FATHER,