hold goods," said I, opening a
little press in the wall.

"And not to be despised, by any means. Show me what a man drinks out of,
and I'll tell you what he drinks. When a man has got thin glasses like
these,--_a la Mousseline_, as we say,--his tipple is Bordeaux."

"I confess the weakness," said I, laughing.

"It is my own infirmity too," said he, sighing. "My theory is, plurality
of wines is as much a mistake as plurality of wives. Coquette, if you
will, with fifty, but give your affections to one. If I am anything,
I am moral. What can keep your fellow so long? I gave him but two
commissions."

"Perhaps the shops were closed at this hour."

"If they were, sir," said he, pompously, "at the word 'Marsac' they
would open. Ha! what do I see here?--a piano? Am I at liberty to open
it?" And without waiting for a reply, he sat down, and ran his hands
over the keys with a masterly facility. As he flew over the octaves, and
struck chords of splendid harmony, I could not help feeling an amount of
credit in all his boastful declarations just from this one trait of real
power about him.

"I see you are a rare musician," said I.

"And it is what I know least," said he; "though Flotow said one day,
'If that rascal De Marsac takes to writing operas, I 'll never compose
another. 'But here comes the supper;" and as he spoke my servant entered
with a small basket with six bottles in it; two waiters following him,
bearing a good-sized tin box, with a charcoal fire beneath.

"Well and perfectly done," exclaimed my guest, as he aided them to place
the soup on the table, and to dispose some _hors d'oeuvre_ of anchovies,
caviare, ham, and fresh butter on the board. "I am sorry we have no
flowers. I love a bouquet A few camellias for color, and some violets
for odor. They relieve the grossness of the material enjoyments; they
poetize the meal; and if you have no women at table, _mon cher_, be sure
to have flowers: not that I object to both together. There, now, is our
little bill of fare,--a white soup, a devilled mackerel, some truffles,
with butter, and a capon with stewed mushrooms. Oysters there are
none, not even those native shrimps they call scampi; but the wine
will compensate for much: the wine is Roediger; champagne, with a faint
suspicion of dryness. And as he has brought ice, we 'll attack that
Bordeaux you spoke of till the other be cool enough for drinking."

As he rattled on thus, it was not very easy for me to assu