The servants (only three—Thérèse the house-maid, Françoise the cook, and English Sarah, who had been my nurse and was now my mother’s maid) were on the kindliest and most familiar terms with us, and talked to us like friends, and interested themselves in our concerns, and we in theirs; I noticed that they always wished us each good-morning and good-night—a pretty French fashion of the Passy bourgeoisie in Louis Philippe’s time (he was a bourgeois king).
Our cuisine was bourgeoise also. Peter Ibbetson’s mouth watered (after his tenpenny London dinner) to see and smell the steam of “soupe à la bonne femme,” “soupe aux choux,” “pot au feu,” “blanquette de veau,” “boeuf à la mode,” “cotelettes de porc à la sauce piquante,” “vinaigrette de boeuf bouilli”—that endless variety of good things on
