I had discussed the contents, called (according to my habit) for a final

pint. It appears they did not keep Roussillon in half-bottles. "All

right," said I. "Another bottle." The tables at this eating-house are

close together; and the next thing I can remember, I was in somewhat

loud conversation with my nearest neighbours. From these I must have

gradually extended my attentions; for I have a clear recollection of

gazing about a room in which every chair was half turned round and every

face turned smilingly to mine. I can even remember what I was saying at

the moment; but after twenty years, the embers of shame are still alive;

and I prefer to give your imagination the cue, by simply mentioning that

my muse was the patriotic. It had been my design to adjourn for coffee

in the company of some of these new friends; but I was no sooner on

the sidewalk than I found myself unaccountably alone. The circumstance

scarce surprised me at the time, much less now; but I was somewhat

chagrined a little after to find I had walked into a kiosque. I began to

wonder if I were any the worse for my last bottle, and decided to steady

myself with coffee and brandy. In the Cafe de la Source, where I went

for this restorative, the fountain was playing, and (what greatly

surprised me) the mill and the various mechanical figures on the rockery

appeared to have been freshly repaired and performed the most enchanting

antics. The cafe was extraordinarily hot and bright, with every detail

of a conspicuous clearness, from the faces of the guests to the type of

the newspapers on the tables, and the whole apartment swang to and fro

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