Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with
the gridiron- a toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of
Eusebius- Plato reclined at his ease in the frying-pan- and
contemporary manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.
In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little
from the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned
opposite the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard
displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles.
It was here, about twelve o'clock one night during the severe winter
the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity- that
Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific
mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of
blazing fagots.
It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once
or twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house
tottered to its centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through
the crannies in the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney,
shook awfully the curtains of the philosopher's bed, and
disorganized the economy of his pate-pans and papers. The huge folio
sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the tempest, creaked
ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its stanchions of solid
oak.
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