His _patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt immaculate; but
      what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la Nature_—his
      thoughts _sur l’Ame_—his observations _sur l’Esprit?_ If
      his _omelettes_—if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable,
      what _littérateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for
      an “_Idée de Bon-Bon_” as for all the trash of “_Idées_” of all
      the rest of the _savants?_ Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
      other man had ransacked—had more than any other would have
      entertained a notion of reading—had understood more than any other
      would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while
      he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert
      “that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the
      depth of the Lyceum”—although, mark me, his doctrines were by no
      means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were
      difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their
      self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is
      to Bon-Bon—but let this go no farther—it is to Bon-Bon that
      Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed
      not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian—nor did he,
      like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be
      employed in the invention of a _fricasée_ or, _facili gradú_,
      the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the
      obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was
      Ionic—Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned _à priori_—He
      reasoned also _à posteriori_. His ideas were innate—or
      otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizonde—He believed in
      Bossarion [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a—Bon-Bonist. I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I
      would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling
      his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of
      their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in
      which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion
      the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities
      of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the
      Chinese, who held that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all
      events were right, he thought, who employed the same words for the mind
      and the diaphragm. (*1) By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of
      gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the
      metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and what great man
      has not a thousand?—if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they
      were failings of very little importance—faults indeed which, in
      other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in
      this history but for the remarkable prominency—the extreme _alto
      relievo_—in which it jutted out from the plane of his general
      disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain. {*1} MD

      Not that he was avaricious—no. It was by no means necessary to the
      satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own
      proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected—a trade of any
      kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances—a triumphant smile
      was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a
      knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity. At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as the
      one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At the
      epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted observation,
      there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that,
      upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was wont to differ
      widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes,
      or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature;
      stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at
      leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague
      longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil
      for wise purposes of his own. The philosopher had other weaknesses—but they are scarcely worthy
      our serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary
      profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle. Whether
      this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof of such
      profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did
      not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;—nor do I. Yet
      in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be
      supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive
      discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time,
      his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had
      its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Cotes du
      Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would
      sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over
      Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had
      it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the
      peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded—but this was by
      no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, that trait of mind in the
      philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a character of strange
      intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with the diablerie
      of his favorite German studies. To enter the little _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febre was, at the period of
      our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of
      genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have told
      you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore
      to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large
      water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his
      master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a
      debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether
      unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual respect
      might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the
      metaphysician.