In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted
hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Cotes du Rhone.
With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would
sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument
over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin.
Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him
in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded- but this
was by no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, that trait of
mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a
character of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply
tinctured with the diablerie of his favorite German studies.
To enter the little Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was, at the
period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon
was a man of genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could
not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew
it, and forebore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of
genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the
approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a
sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of
the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog.
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