“Beautiful,” Stoker breathed.
“My friend, you cannot see the most luscious part. The inside is filled withcrème chiboust,” he teased as Stoker made a whimpering sound in his throat.
Julien handed him a bowl of leftovercrème chiboustand a spoon. “Come,” he beckoned. “We will go where we may be private.”
“How do you know that is necessary?” I asked.
He gave me a knowing look. “With the two of you, it is always necessary.”
Julien issued a series of rapid instructions to his crew and then shepherded us into his private room, a sort of study where he kept his cookery notebooks, bottles of exquisitely expensive syrups he concocted himself, and assorted mementos from his travels. A pretty religious statue had been added to the collection, a churchman clutching a baker’s peel.
“You have a new friend,” I observed.
Julien gave the saint a fond look. “Saint Honoré, the patron of pastry chefs. You will note his mitre? He was bishop of Amiens in his day, and not to be confused with the patron of theboulanger, Saint Lazare. His feast day is in a few weeks, and I am making them always to practice his special cake,” he added, nodding towards the pastry kitchen, where his assistants were still struggling to replicate the intricate gâteau St. Honoré.
He sat back in his chair, folding his hands expansively over his taut middle. For a pastry chef, Julien had a remarkably slender physique, fit and wiry in spite of the masses of sugar he consumed. He was dressed in a chef’s coat of pristine white, but he never wore a toque, preferring instead a soft cap, usually of crimson velvet. Today’s effort was new, still velvet, but a striking shade of cyclamen.
“A gift from your lady friend?” I guessed.
He smiled, broadly enough to show his dimples. “She makes me many gifts,ma petite chou.”
“So you have entirely given up on the idea of wooing J. J. Butterworth?” I inquired. “It was only January when your head was quite turned by her charms.”
He shrugged. “Dough cannot rise in the cold,” he said cryptically. “But you did not come to discuss my love life. How are you, my friends?”
“In need of information,” Stoker said. But, having scraped the bowl ofcrème chiboustclean, he allowed his gaze to drift to a small plate of enticing tiny glazed fruit tarts that shimmered like jewels.
Julien, attentive as always, offered the plate to me first, then thrust it into Stoker’s hands. “You must try them. I am not unhappy,” he said, high praise from such an exacting practitioner of the pastry arts.
My little tart had been filled with a bit of crème anglaise and then heaped with candied apricots and glazed, the whole affair topped with brandied sugar spun into a miniature bird’s nest.
I swallowed the last delectable crumb and sucked the sugar from my fingers. “You are truly a master,” I said with a happy sigh.
Julien waved aside the praise, but his pleasure was obvious. “Now, if I were to guess, you have come either to inquire about the opera singer who is currently in residence with her husband and her lover—or the maharani.”
“Got it in one,” Stoker told him through a mouthful of tart.
“Which?” Julien asked.
“The maharani,” I said promptly. Under other circumstances, I would have been thoroughly entertained by a little salacious operatic gossip, but a lady and two men with claims upon her attentions struck a bit too near the bone for my comfort.
Julien tipped his head back and steepled his fingers. “A very elegant lady, the maharani. She favors silks in very strong colors which suit her. Not everyone can wear orange,” he advised me. “With your complexion you should not attempt it.”
“I never would,” I assured him.
He went on. “But on her it is dramatic as a rising sun, a most enchanting effect. And her figure is very good. She is not so young, you understand, but with such excellent breasts—”
“Yes, thank you,” Stoker said, flushing a delicate shade of rose.
“Do you not wish to hear about her breasts?” Julien asked. “My friend, they are delectable. Not too large, just beautifully formed.” Once Julien began enumerating a woman’s charms, he could go on for hours.
“Something besides her breasts,” I suggested.
He shrugged. “They are lovely, but not as matchless as her eyes. Englishmen,” he said with a moue of displeasure, “do not always appreciate the subtleties of difference in the shades of brown. They see skin and hair and eyes which are dark and think, ‘Eh, this is all thesame.’ But no! God has wrought each with a poet’s hand, giving tones and shades. One must look closely in order to see, do you understand? And no one sees as well as Julien d’Orlande,” he added, puffing out his chest. “The maharani has eyes like polished gems, full of light and intelligence. She is accustomed to command. She does not drop her eyes modestly like an Englishwoman, but she lifts her chin and dares one to look away. I find her enchanting, although she does not eat enough,” he added with a frown. “It is often the way with those raised in that part of Asia. They have not the habit of sugar, so their taste for sweets is fruit, always fruit! I tempt her with my delicacies and always she sends the maid to say, ‘My mistress will have a mango.’ A mango!” He rolled his eyes in despair. “Where is a mango to be found in England in April, I ask you?”
“So how do you satisfy the lady’s appetites?” I asked demurely.
He grinned at the double entendre. “You converse like a Frenchwoman. I cannot give her the mango. Such a thing does not exist here in this season. So one day, in despair, I created one from marzipan. I took the almond paste and sculpted and painted and tinted until it was exquisite, impossible to tell from the real thing. I sent it up to her and she sent it back and asked it be given to the poor for their pleasure. But she dispatched her grandson to bring me her compliments.”
