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I have said that "to enter the Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was to
enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the man
of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign,
consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of
the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate. On the back
were visible in large letters Oeuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately
shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.
Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique
construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Cafe. In
a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army
of curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, gave it an air at once
classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared,
in direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the
bibliotheque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser.
Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics--there a kettle of dudecimo
melanges. 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.
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