A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say,
      have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the
      outward man of the restaurateur calculated to impress the imagination of
      the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the
      little great—if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression—which
      mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in
      creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his
      head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the
      rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering
      upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of
      his acquirements—in its immensity a fitting habitation for his
      immortal soul. I might here—if it so pleased me—dilate upon the matter of
      habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I
      might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over
      his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and
      tassels—that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those
      worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day—that the
      sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted—that
      the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with
      cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more
      fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa—that his
      slippers were of a bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been
      manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the
      brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery—that his breeches were
      of the yellow satin-like material called aimable—that his sky-blue
      cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all
      over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a
      mist of the morning—and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the
      remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, “that it
      was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
      or rather a very Paradise of perfection.” I might, I say, expatiate upon
      all these points if I pleased,—but I forbear, merely personal
      details may be left to historical novelists,—they are beneath the
      moral dignity of matter-of-fact. I have said that “to enter the _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febre 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 _paté_. On the back were
      visible in large letters _Œuvres 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 _café_. In a
      corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of
      curtains, together with a canopy _à la Grècque_, 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
      _mélanges_. 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 _Café 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. It was here, about twelve o’clock one night during the severe
      winter of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened to
      the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity—that
      Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
      the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific
      mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of
      blazing fagots. It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice
      during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its centre
      with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall,
      and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of
      the philosopher’s bed, and disorganized the economy of his pate-pans and
      papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the
      tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its
      stanchions of solid oak. 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 à la Princesse_, he had
      unfortunately perpetrated an _omelette à 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. He had been thus occupied for some minutes when “I am in no hurry,
      Monsieur Bon-Bon,” suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.