romance could have supported me under the cat-civets that I had to

swallow, and the red ink of Bercy I must wash them down withal. Every

now and again, after a hard day at the studio, where I was steadily and

far from unsuccessfully industrious, a wave of distaste would overbear

me; I would slink away from my haunts and companions, indemnify myself

for weeks of self-denial with fine wines and dainty dishes; seated

perhaps on a terrace, perhaps in an arbour in a garden, with a volume

of one of my favourite authors propped open in front of me, and now

consulted awhile, and now forgotten:--so remain, relishing my situation,

till night fell and the lights of the city kindled; and thence stroll

homeward by the riverside, under the moon or stars, in a heaven of

poetry and digestion.

One such indulgence led me in the course of my second year into an

adventure which I must relate: indeed, it is the very point I have been

aiming for, since that was what brought me in acquaintance with Jim

Pinkerton. I sat down alone to dinner one October day when the rusty

leaves were falling and scuttling on the boulevard, and the minds of

impressionable men inclined in about an equal degree towards sadness

and conviviality. The restaurant was no great place, but boasted a

considerable cellar and a long printed list of vintages. This I was

perusing with the double zest of a man who is fond of wine and a lover

of beautiful names, when my eye fell (near the end of the card) on that

not very famous or familiar brand, Roussillon. I remembered it was a

wine I had never tasted, ordered a bottle, found it excellent, and when

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