The year 1870 had disbanded that little society of connoisseurs and of conversationalists, and the club was metamorphosed into a restaurant, almost unknown, except to a few artists or diplomats who were attracted by the ancient splendors of the place, and, above all, by the knowledge of the "doctor's" talents.
It was not unusual at eight o'clock for the three small rooms which composed the establishment to be full of men in white cravats, white waistcoats and evening coats.

To cosmopolitan Dorsenne this was a singularly interesting sight; a member of the English embassy here, of the Russian embassy farther on, two German attaches elsewhere, two French secretaries near at hand from St.Siege, another from the Quirinal.

What interested the novelist still more was the conversation of the doctor himself, genial Brancadori, who could neither read nor write.

But he had preserved a faithful remembrance of all his old customers, and when he felt confidential, standing erect upon the threshold of his kitchen, of the possession of which he was so insolently proud, he repeated curious stories of Rome in the days of his youth.

His gestures, so conformable to the appearance of things, his mobile face and his Tuscan tongue, which softened into h all the harsh e's between two vowels, gave a savor to his stories which delighted a seeker after local truths.