It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up
his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances
of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the
serenity of his meditations. In attempting des oeufs a la Princesse,
he had unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a la Reine; the discovery
of a principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a
stew; and last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those
admirable bargains which he at all times took such especial delight in
bringing to a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind
at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be
mingled some degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a
boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his
more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of
before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not
help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those distant recesses of
the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red firelight
itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming. Having
completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to
himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books
and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a
voluminous manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.
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