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Updated: June 18, 2025
She had uttered her protest against the pilgrimage, as she had swept the Parisian's pousse-cafe from his elbow. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped. "It is amusing to hear Madame Poulard talk of the priests stopping the pilgrimages! The priests? Why, that's all they have left them to live upon now. These peasants' are the only pockets in which they can fumble nowadays."
The impartial historian, given to a just weighing of evidence, would have been startled to find how invariably the scales tipped; how lightly an historical Mont, born of a miracle, crowned by the noblest buildings, a pious Mecca for saints and kings innumerable, shot up like feathers in lightness when over-weighted by the modern realities of a perfectly appointed inn, the cooking and eating of an omelette of omelettes, and the all-conquering charms of Madame Poulard.
Naturally, they could not see as much to admire in Madame Poulard or in her dish as did their cure. There was nothing so wonderful after all in the turning of eggs over a hot fire. The omelette! after all, an omelette is an omelette! Some are better some are worse; one has one's luck in cooking as in anything else.
Our table and the radiant world at her feet were included in this, her line of observations. "Ah, mesdames, comme vous savez bien vous placer! how admirably you understand how to place yourselves! Under such a sky as this before such a spectacle one should be in the front row, as at a theatre!" And that was the beginning of our deeds finding favor in the eyes of Madame Poulard.
I was going in search of your mother!" at which needless truism all the kitchen would laugh. Madame Poulard herself would find time for one of her choicest smiles, although this was the great moment of the working of the miracle. She was beginning to cook the omelette. The head-cook was beating the eggs in a great yellow bowl.
Madame Poulard, like all clever women who are also pretty, had two voices: one was dedicated solely to the working of her charms; this one was soft, melodious, caressing, the voice of dove when cooing; the other, used for strictly business purposes, was set in the quick, metallic staccato tones proper for such occasions. The dove's voice was trolling its sweetness, as she went on "Eggs, monsieur?
Yes, and capons, perhaps, and then sweets." The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevitch's way not to call the dishes by the names in the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but could not resist rehearsing the whole menu to himself according to the bill: "Soupe printanière, turbot, sauce Beaumarchais, poulard
Michael had, in truth, been, violated; that the Mont had been desecrated; that the latter exists now solely as a setting for a pearl of an inn; and that within the shrine it is Madame Poulard herself who fills the niche! The pilgrims come from darkest Africa and the sunlit Yosemite, but they remain to pray at the Inn of the Omelette.
At the great gates of the fortifications the pilgrim descends, and behold, a howling chorus of serving-people take up the chant of: "Chez Madame Poulard, a gauche, a la renommee de l'omelette!" The inner walls of the town lend themselves to their last and best estate, that of proclaiming the glory of "L'Omelette."
Here he thought he might safely indulge himself with a comfortable meal; accordingly he bespoke a poulard for dinner, and while that was preparing, went forth to view the city and harbour. When he beheld the white cliffs of Albion, his heart throbbed with all the joy of a beloved son, who, after a tedious and fatiguing voyage, reviews the chimneys of his father's house.
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