Exquisite bread of the Cafe Cluny, exquisite first glass of old Pomard tingling to my wet feet, indescribable first olive culled from the hors d'oeuvre--I suppose, when I come to lie dying, and the lamp begins to grow dim, I shall still recall your savour.

Over the rest of that meal, and the rest of the evening, clouds lie thick; clouds perhaps of Burgundy; perhaps, more properly, of famine and repletion.
I remember clearly, at least, the shame, the despair, of the next morning, when I reviewed what I had done, and how I had swindled the poor honest porter; and, as if that were not enough, fairly burnt my ships, and brought bankruptcy home to that last refuge, my garret.

The porter would expect his money; I could not pay him; here was scandal in the house; and I knew right well the cause of scandal would have to pack.

"What do you mean by calling my honesty in question ?" I had cried the day before, turning upon Myner.

Ah, that day before! the day before Waterloo, the day before the Flood; the day before I had sold the roof over my head, my future, and my self-respect, for a dinner at the Cafe Cluny! In the midst of these lamentations the famous registered letter came to my door, with healing under its seals.