"Not exactly," answered my companion,
but next door, — behold!"

'' He raised his hand and pointed to a little
sign swinging fitfully in the night air and
the light of a little lamp; and I read these
words:—

"SPECIALITÉ DE PUMPKIN PlE."

"Enter," said my friend.

We entered a little, a very little shop, on
whose tiny window-panes were emblazoned
half-effaced legends in yellow paint relative
to eggs, milk, cream, coffee, and broth at all
hours. A solitary candle cast a feeble light
upon a little counter, where there was a tea-
cup, and an account-book of extreme narrowness,
but of prodigious length. Behind the
counter loomed in the darkness visible some
shelves, with many bottles of many sizes.
Some tall loaves were leaning up in a corner
as if they were tired of being the staff of life,
and wanted to rest themselves. A spectre of a
pumpkin, a commentary of the text outside,
winked in the crepuscule like a yellow eye.
There were no eggs, broth, cream, or coffee
to be seen; but there was a pleasant odour
of cooking palpable to the olfactory nerves,
and this was all.

' Push on," said my friend.

I pushed on towards another little light in
the distance, and then I became sensible of a
stronger and yet pleasanter odour of cooking;
of a cheery voice that welcomed my
friend as Monsieur Tompkins (let us say),
and of another calmer, softer, sweeter voice,
that saluted him as her "amiable cabbage,"
—both female voices, and good to hear.

Pushing still onwards, I found myself in a
very small many-sided apartment, which, but
for a round table and some chairs, seemed
furnished exclusively with bottles. There
were bottles here and bottles there, bottles
above and bottles below, bottles everywhere,
like the water round the ship of the Ancient
Mariner; but the similarity stopped there,
for there were many drops to drink. At the
round table, more than three parts covered
with bottles, sat five men with beards. They
were all large in stature and in beard, and
were eating and drinking vigorously. Pasted
on the walls above were several portraits in
chalk, among which I immediately recognised
those of the five bearded guests. Nobody
spoke, but the five beards were bowed in
grave courtesy: the clatter of knives and
forks relaxed for a moment, to recommence
with redoubled ardour; and two additional
places were found for us at the round table
with miraculous silence and promptitude.
Then the proprietor of the cheery voice, a
rosy-cheeked country girl, with her handkerchief
tied under her chin, which at first
suggested toothache, but eventually became
picturesque, placed before me bread, butter, a
snowy napkin, a knife and fork, and a bottle
of wine. Then the calm, soft, sweet voice
became a presence incarnated in a mild
woman with a gray dress and sad eyes, who
addressing me as "dear friend of Monsieur
Tompkins," suggested pottage,—in which
suggestion I acquiesced immediately.

The round table was of simple oak, and
there was no table-cloth. The chairs were
straw-bottomed and exceedingly comfortable.
The floor was tiled and sanded. A solitary
but very large wax candle burnt in an iron
candlestick. The salt-cellar (to prevent any
one asking or being asked for it) was neatly
poised on the top of a decanter, and was
visible to all. Pepper was a superfluity, so
excellently seasoned were the dishes. At
intervals hands appeared, very much in the
White Cat fashion, and tendered sardines,
olives, the mild cheese of Brie, the pungent
Roquefort, and the porous Gruyère.

I don't mean to say that I had any ortolans
quails, forced asparagus, or hot-house grapes
at Madame Busque's (though I might have
had them too, by ordering them), but I do
mean to declare that I had as good, plentiful,
clean, well-dressed a dinner as ever Brillat-
Savarin or Dr. Kitchener would have
desired to sit down to. Wines of the best,
liqueurs of the best, coffee of the best, cigars
of the best (these last at the exorbitant rate
of a penny a piece), and, above all, conversation
of the very best.

For you are not to suppose that the five
bearded men were silent during the entire
evening. Dinner once discussed and cigars
once lighted, it turned out that the proprietor
of one beard was a natural philosopher; ano-
ther an Oriental linguist; a third a newspaper
correspondent; a fourth a physician; a fifth a
vice-consul:—that all had travelled very
nearly over Europe, had ascended Vesuvius,
had smoked cigars in the Coliseum, had taken
long walks in the Black Forest. Travel, anecdote,
science, literature, art, political discussion,
utterly free from personality or prejudice,
—all these, with a good and cheap dinner,
did I find haphazard at Madame Busque's.

Nor perhaps was this the only good thing
connected with the " creamery." I have since
found myself the only Englishman among
sometimes not five, but fifteen subjects, of a certain
Great Republic, three thousand miles away;
and up to this moment I have never heard
the slightest allusion to guessing, calculation,
gouging, bowie-kniving, repudiation, lynching,
locofocos, knownothings, "Hard shells,"
alligators, snags or sawyers, or any of the topics
on which our Republican cousins are
supposed almost exclusively to converse. More
than this, the much-to-be-abhorred questions
of dollars or cents are never broached by any
chance.

I need not say that I dine very frequently
at Madame Busque's. I like her; her cookery;
her guests; her good-humoured servant
Florence, and her Pumpkin Pie, for which she
has a speciality, and the confection of which
was taught her by the vice-consul. I am not
going to tell you how cheap her dinners are,
or where they are to be had, till I know more